The Genie in a Bottle Job
by HolyCowsAndFlyingPigs
Summary: When Nate goes missing, the Leverage team sets off to the barren wasteland of Nebraska to rescue him. Meanwhile, our two favorite hunters are mucking their way through a case that goes wrong at every turn. A story in which the team loses its mastermind and the Winchesters lose their patience. Set during season two of Leverage and season four of Supernatural.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this is a little project of mine that I've been working on for several months now, and I'm a little nervous about posting it, but here goes! Please comment, criticize, or compliment if it tickles your fancy, I'd love to hear what people think!

* * *

"Come on, come on," Eliot growled urgently into the phone after the first three rings. "Pick _up_."

"_This is Nate Ford. I'm not here, leave a message or hang up_."

Eliot hung up. That was the sixth time he heard Nate's pre-recorded message. He shook his hair out of his eyes and shared a worried look with Hardison. The hacker's mouth was a grim line as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. He rested his head against the back of the booth, his migraine thumping against his temples to the beat of a mambo. Parker was at the other end of McRory's, changing her seat every couple seconds. She sat down, tapped her foot anxiously, stood up, and repeated the process in a different chair.

"Call Sophie," Hardison turned to his laptop and began to type. "I'm turning on his comm as we speak. We'll have his location in five." _Screw his privacy_, Hardison thought angrily, _the man's been missing for three days_.

Eliot hesitated. "You think she'll come back?"

"Of course she will," Parker said curtly, fidgeting on a bar stool. "She loves us." Eliot had his doubts, but didn't argue as he dialed the grifter's number. He listened to four rings before she picked up.

"Eliot," Sophie's voice was smooth as a fine wine laced with arsenic. "I'm in the middle of a massage by the world-renowned Feng Tsu so let's make this short and sweet, shall we?"

_Fine_. "Nate's missing," he said, both shortly and sweetly. He heard an audible intake of breath.

"How long?" Sophie said over a stream of disgruntled Mandarin in the background.

"Three days."

"Has Hardison-" Sophie was cut off by the hacker's loud exclamation.

"_Nebraska? _What the _Hell _is Nate doing in Nebraska?"

Sophie paused. "Was that..."

"Yeah," Eliot glared over Hardison's shoulder. Sure enough, there was Nate's signal. "Will you- I mean, he's missing..." the hitter choked, struggling with his pride. It wasn't every day Eliot Spencer needed to ask for help. "We just thought it'd be better to do this-" He huffed. "Look, are you coming back or not?"

"Am I coming back?" Sophie echoed, offended that he needed to ask. "Eliot, I'm on my way to the airport right now. Pick me up at Logan International tomorrow morning."

Parker's face lit up at Eliot's next words. "See you then."

Her flight came in at five in the morning, but when Eliot picked out her figure walking hastily through the early morning arrivals, not a single hair on Sophie Devereaux's head was out of place.

"It's her super power," Parker had responded when he pointed it out.

Eliot stood, arms folded across his chest, in the middle of Boston Logan International Airport as the tired, air-weary grifter rolled her suitcase towards him. Parker bounced nervously on her heels (Eliot was seriously regretting letting her drink the last half of his red eye) and grabbed his bicep. And _squeezed_.

"Stop that," he muttered, shrugging out of her petite bear traps she called hands. She found another part of his arm to cling to.

"You think she'll be happy to see us?" Parker stage-whispered and dug her nails into Eliot.

"Why don't you ask her?" Sophie said, stopping a careful distance away from the two. Parker released the hitter and inched forward. She tentatively petted Sophie's arm, testing the waters. Sophie gratefully pulled her into a hug: and if her eyes were wet when she opened them again, that was her own business. "So," she squeezed the thief one final time and faced Eliot. Regaining his trust could be difficult, she thought when she read his blank expression. "What happened?"

It took Hardison a while over the comms, but with help from Eliot and Parker, she finally pieced together the past four days while driving to McRory's.

It had started innocently enough. Five days ago, Nate had left to scope out a potential client while simultaneously gaining information on the mark. He had called the day after, saying he was headed back to Boston and they could expect him at the bar later that night. He never showed. After leaving messages on his cell and checking off all other means of finding out where he was, Hardison finally decided, "To Hell with it, he could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere." Before Sophie could argue that four days wasn't too long for Nate to be gone, Hardison interrupted.

"His signal hasn't moved," was all he needed to say. "Not even a little bit since I traced it."

"He could be sleeping," Sophie offered weakly.

"Maybe he was mauled to death by a pack of wolves," Parker suggested, "and all that's left of him is his ear."

Hardison gave her the _look_. "Parker, we're supposed to be thinking positive here, not giving me nightmares!" He stared wide-eyed at her. Parker shrugged. She didn't get what the big deal was, she just offered an explanation. Like Sophie had, but more with more realism and gore.

"I think," Sophie said loudly over the argument brewing between the younger members of the team, "I think we should go and find out instead of arguing about it here. Agreed?"

"Yeah," three voices grumbled

* * *

Parker decided she didn't like Nebraska. It was too flat and open. And _boring_. It was so boring that she had taken to blowing a dog whistle out the window of "This sorry excuse for a rental is _Not_ Lucille" (Hardison's words) as they passed farms, just to entertain herself. Technically, she was seated in the back of the van with Sophie, but whenever she saw a farm silo looming in head lights and moonlight, she scrambled up to the front and rolled down the window, sticking her head out to unleash the chaos the whistle would cause. This meant that the two men in the front seats had to be clambered over, but neither of them really seemed to mind and Hardison had almost crashed only twice. So it was all in good fun.

"Parker, must you?" Sophie groaned in exasperation, still recovering from jet lag. Parker knelt on Eliot's lap, ignoring his grunt of pain as her knees came a _little too close_ for comfort, and brought the silver whistle to her lips. Her hair flew into her face and tangled in the open window's vacuum-like pull. She thought about it for a moment.

"Yes," she decided and blew into the whistle. The effect was immediate and satisfying. Several dogs howled and barked from the farm. Another silent call from Parker's whistle had a lovely chocolate lab, a chain dragging behind from its collar, chasing after Not Lucille by the light of the van's taillights.

"Where did you get that thing anyway?" Eliot asked, looking anywhere but the woman in his lap, which left the van's ceiling and Hardison, the latter of which was giving him a lethal glare. The ceiling suddenly became very interesting.

Parker shrugged. "I found it. It's mine now," she told Eliot before climbing back to join Sophie. The grifter arched her brows.

"Can I safely assume by 'found' you mean 'acquired in a questionably legal manner'?" Sophie asked, her voice as dry as Death Valley. Parker toyed with the silver thing. It was shiny and pretty, with little engraved markings on it. Expensive looking, but that wasn't what had drawn her to the trinket. It was the man from whom she "acquired it in a questionably legal manner". He had been annoying so she stole his pretty little toy.

"It's mine." And that was the last she said on the matter.

"A'ight, gang," Hardison gulped down another bottle of Orange Squeeze and sneaked a glace at the GPS he'd hooked up to his locating program. "Nate's in an abandoned warehouse at the end of this super spooky dirt road. At night. Nothing shady about that."

Eliot unbuckled himself. "Parker, switch places." After a bit of maneuvering, the hitter settled next to Sophie. She refused to meet his eye. "Sophie, this is starting to look-"

"I know how it looks," she said sharply, "and it doesn't matter. We go in, we get Nate, we leave this God-forsaken patch of dirt."

Eliot retreated, all but waving a white flag. "Okay." It didn't stop him from preparing for the worst. His job was to keep the team safe, and that's what he'd do. Even if they found Nate... not alive. Or worse. Eliot could think of ten things off the top of his head that went under the Way Worse than Not Alive category. Most of which took place in abandoned warehouses at the ends of super spooky dirt roads.

Not Lucille's headlights cut into the gloom, illuminating the warehouse's decayed state. Something reflected back at them.

"Cut the lights," Eliot hissed. Hardison, for once in his life, shut up and obeyed a direct order that didn't come from Nate. A sleek vintage muscle car was parked outside the building. The team left Not Lucille around the corner and out of sight before edging closer to the car. It appeared empty.

"Parker," Sophie whispered. "How good is your car thief?"

A smile slowly spread across the blonde's face. It was the kind of smile you'd see on a suburban kid whose idea of a good time involved ants, a magnifying glass, and direct sunlight. It was the kind of smile Sophie hoped she'd never see directed at herself.

Parker took less than a second to break into the vintage car. That may have been because she was good at what she did, but was more likely attributed to the vehicle's owner leaving it unlocked.

"Sloppy," Parker muttered under her breath. Hardison sheepishly pressed the remote lock for Not Lucille. He regretted that action the moment the van beeped and flashed its lights at him.

"Damn it, Hardison!" Eliot fumed, gripping his hands into fists. "Do you want the people in there knowing we're outside?"

"Maybe they didn't hear?" Hardison prayed they hadn't. The team waited in silence. Nothing. Hardison released the breath he was holding. Someone Up There had his back. Or possibly someone Down There; the hacker wasn't picky as long as they kept sending him lucky breaks.

"Parker, get whatever information you can out of the car," Eliot took charge. "I'll go inside. Everyone else wait out here."

"Oh no," said Sophie, "there's no chance you're going in there alone and I'm definitely not staying out here."

"It could get ugly in there, we have no idea who's in that warehouse," Eliot warned, always the voice of reason. "You're not going in unless I know I can keep you safe."

"Eliot, I'm going in after you whether you take me with you or not. Wouldn't it be safer to know where I am?"

Though it made his blood boil, Eliot forced himself to nod. An argument now wouldn't help get their mastermind back. "Fine, but if I say run, you run. Got it?" Sophie sighed. The hitter decided to interpret that as a _yes_.

"Uh, you know what?" Hardison glanced around the open fields, feeling very exposed. "I should probably go with y'all. For back up."

"What about Parker?" Eliot crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the hacker.

"I've got a taser," Parker stuck her head out of the driver's window.

"See? She's got a taser, she's fine." It wasn't like this looked like a scene from a horror movie or anything like that. No, it took more than the decrepit remains of the industrial boom in the middle of nowhere to scare the likes of Alec Hardison.

Eliot almost smiled. If the situation wasn't so serious, he'd be teasing his friend right now. A cold dread guillotined the hitter's warmth. That was a close; he'd nearly let himself forget their purpose in being here. That was mistake that could get him-or worse, one of his team- killed. Only Sophie noticed his brief lapse and chose not to remark on it. Eliot turned his back purposefully on the others so they couldn't see the tight lines of worry that no amount of meditation would erase. He would just have to trust Sophie and Hardison to do as he said.

It was even darker inside the warehouse without the moonlight's weak glow, but Eliot didn't dare turn on a flashlight. Sophie stuck close behind him and Hardison stuck even closer to her. The hacker had seen enough Scooby-Doo episodes to know that entering the dark, empty building usually ended with a montage of chases to music of the Flower Power persuasion. At least he hoped this would turn out like that and not, for example, like a scene from _My Bloody Valentine _(the original, of course: Hardison couldn't _stand _the remake)_._

The three had inched their way through the first hallway when Eliot froze.

"Oof!" Sophie collided with his back and Hardison fell against her own.

He gave them both a withering glare that was completely lost in the darkness. After a minute or two, they heard what had stopped the hitter.

At first it sounded like a man arguing with himself, but as the small group got closer, it became apparent that the man was just swearing. Maybe not _just _swearing. This man was cursing God, His mama, and His mama's mama (also, oddly enough, someone named Mr. Muffin). Even Eliot winced at a few of the curses. A second voice spoke softly in comparison and Eliot couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. The hitter rounded a corner and motioned for the others to duck down. Behind a half-destroyed wall, flashlight beams illuminated two figures and what looked like abandoned IV stands.

"Dean," the soft-spoken man was saying. "Shut up and stop acting like a two-year-old."

"_Two weeks_, Sam. Two _friggin' _weeks spent in that _friggin' _B'n'B with that _friggin'_ old lady and her _friggin_' rat all because of this _friggin' _Djinn and his _friggin'_ taste for rednecks. And for what? That's right, an empty nest. Nice going, Einstein." (It should be mentioned at this point that the loud man, Dean, never actually said _friggin'_ but used a far more expressive vocabulary).

"What?" Sophie mouthed at Hardison. He shook his head, as confused and speechless as she was. Weren't they supposed to be rescuing Nate from some kind of Nebraskan drug cartel?

The one called Sam wearily sighed like this wasn't a new topic of discussion. "Okay, so Mrs. Franklin's chihuahua chewed up your jacket. Get over it. It's not my fault you left it where the dog could get at it."

"Nuh uh," Dean said. "That _thing _is not a dog. It's possessed."

"Are you done?" Sam threw his hands up in the air, causing a beam of light to momentarily flash over their hidden audience of three. "'Cause I think the missing genie trumps your bitch fit."

Hitter, hacker, and grifter shared matching looks of bewilderment. _Who the Hell were these people? _

"Whatever, let's get out of here."

Eliot tensed. If the strangers left now, the team would be blown. If Parker's cryptic muttering over the comms could be interpreted as anything, then she needed more time.

"Wait," Sam said. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Dean glanced over his shoulder.

"_That_," Sam knelt, his focus trained on a small plastic thing on the grimy concrete. He picked it up and held it out for the other to inspect.

"Some kind of hearing aid, maybe?" Dean suggested. "Which is weird, 'cause-"

"None of the vics are over thirty," Sam finished grimly. "We've got another victim, Dean."

A long pause followed their realization. Sophie nudged Eliot. He nodded, telling her she'd heard correctly. These two men, talking about "vics" like characters on a bad daytime cop show, had found Nate's earbud. Which made Nate the other victim.

Dean counted aloud. "So that's four empty juice pouches in the other room, the mummy in the old church basement, two disappearances in the last month, and a geezer missing a hearing aid. I'm really starting to dislike this blood junkie."

"Looks like you're going to be spending some more quality time with Muffy the jacket slayer," Sam said with a deadpan expression. Dean's right eye twitched.

Sophie hoped Parker was having more luck than they were.

* * *

What Parker was having was the time of her life. Only during her brief cameo as a car thief with Kelly had she ever seen a car (Impala, Parker observed, manufactured sometime in the 1960s) so loved as this one. And even then, that particular vehicle ranked a close second to the vintage Chevy. She sat shotgun, letting herself be immersed in the new environment. She closed her eyes and breathed in the odd cocktail of old leather, gun powder, and adult male. It felt safe, almost homey. She would have been happy just to sit there in the worn seat, but she had to move fast. Timing was everything. Timing was survival.

She started with the glove box. She hummed in surprise at the treasure trove she found in it. Pre-paid cell phones, a cigar box of identities (many of which were law enforcement of some kind). She closely examine several. She let out a single bark of laughter.

"Fake," Parker crowed, checking her volume immediately. "Fake, fake, fake." She tossed the IDs back. They looked homemade but were passably, if unprofessionally, realistic. If you stood back a few feet and didn't look too closely, that is. She gingerly pulled out a handgun: loaded, by the feel of it. She tisked. "Nasty habit, leaving guns around where just anyone can get to them."

The comms were silent, except for Hardison's noisy mouth-breathing, which Parker took as a good sign. She stuck a small flash light in her mouth and dug under her seat with both hands. She came up with an old, dusty journal with a brown leather cover and a box of cassette tapes. She didn't recognize any names of the bands, except for the one named after electrical currents. Archie had been more of a classical kind of guy and Eliot wouldn't let her near his music collection. She wrinkled her nose in distaste when she thought about what Hardison called music. So nothing worth her time in the tapes, not even some spare change. The journal turned out to be far more interesting.

She skimmed some of the first lines. Most of them were names and addresses, but a few pages in things started getting weird. She devoured the information written in several types of pen, pencil, and -in one memorable entry- crayon. Things even she didn't believe in, things that lived in closets and under beds, things that belonged in nightmares, were identified and cataloged in the yellowing paper. Parker shivered and glanced outside the windshield, suddenly feeling like a thousand eyes were watching her.

She tossed the book aside and promised herself she'd come back for it. For now, she had a trunk to break into.

Again, she hadn't needed to do anything illegal to open it. Either these people were incredibly confidant, or terrifyingly stupid. At first glance, the trunk looked pretty normal, if a little bare. But Parker wouldn't be Parker if she let appearances deceive her. She felt along the edges of the trunk until - there! A handle tucked discretely away. She tugged it up.

Her mouth fell open.

She snapped it shut.

It dropped anyway.

The trunk was a _friggin'_ arsenal. Parker's hands drifted cautiously over the knives and ammo, touched on the sawed-off shotguns and machetes, and itched to hold the single grenade tucked in the back. Eliot would hate this, she thought, too many guns. The hitter didn't need half the stuff in the Impala's trunk, except maybe the grenade. Maybe.

Her gaze fell on the crucifixes and little handbooks with Latin titles stenciled into their covers.

_Who were these people?_

She pulled out a silver flask. A liquid sloshed inside. She unscrewed the top and sniffed. It smelled a bit like the water in Nate's preacher friend's church. Which is to say, exactly like normal water, but Parker got the feeling it was special like Sophie said the church water was.

"_Parker!_"

The interruption made her hands spill the special water over the bumper.

"What?" she huffed.

"Get out of there," Eliot whispered harshly, "Two guys headed your way. Nate isn't with them."

"Well, where is he?" she asked, tightening the flask's lid and throwing it back into the disorganized pile of dangerous toys.

"Not here."

Parker slammed the trunk shut with more force than she needed to, momentarily forgetting she should be quiet. Her instincts took over and she slunk towards Not Lucille's hidden parking spot. She paused mid-slink. Her eyes were drawn back to the Chevy. If she was quick, and she was _always_ quick, she could snag the journal and still make it to the van. Indecision had her shifting back and forth.

With an oath she learned a decade ago from a girl in juvie, she sprinted back to the Impala. Her hands fumbled for the journal in the passenger seat, only to find empty space. She frantically patted down the driver's seat and even the floor before spotting it in the backseat. She hesitated again.

Twin beams shined through the warehouse's door. She couldn't choose both without getting caught: it was the journal or the van. She weighed the options in her mind.

And chose.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Holy cats! Thank you so much for the feedback and kind words! Thanks especially to Loonyloops, LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, and LyleRay for reviewing, but also to anyone who took the time to read this. Unfortunately (for you, not me, since I know what happens. Perks of being the author.) this chapter will not tell you what happens to Parker. I know, I know, but everything will be revealed soon enough. Now, onto chapter two!

* * *

Nate felt warm and safe. Slowly opening his eyes, he was greeted by warm morning rays of sun that cheerily shone through a window to his right. He groggily pushed a duvet away from his cheek. His brow wrinkled when he realized where he was.

_But that wasn't possible_.

The room (Nate knew it wasn't just _any_ room, but that thought was just to ridiculous to entertain, even for a second) was a pale yellow, painted in happier times than the last time he had seen it. It was surreal. His life was split rigidly in two by Before and After Sam's death. Waking up in this room, in this bed, was dangerously crossing the streams. He thought back to last night. He couldn't recall how he had ended up on a feathery mattress that smelled like lilacs and home; all he could remember was downing a good portion of a bottle of scotch and a blue light. Despite the sleepy fog in his head, he felt better than he had in years. Apparently that scotch hadn't left its mark. He hadn't woken up feeling so good since Before. Something warm stirred next to him in the soft sheets.

"Nate, it's Saturday," a disturbingly familiar voice murmured. "You promised you wouldn't wake me up before eight." He shifted uneasily toward the voice.

"Maggie?" Okay, maybe the scotch _had_ left its mark. Nate quizzically took in his wife's tangled blonde morning hair. "What are you doing here?"

Maggie rubbed her eyes wearily. "Not sleeping, thanks to you." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Nate stiffened. That didn't seem like the Maggie he knew and divorced.

"I need a drink," he groaned, rolling away from her.

"Ha ha," she replied with the tone of someone who had heard a joke one too many times. "Very funny." His wife (_ex-wife_, he mentally heard Sophie's habitual correction) pushed off the blankets and sat up with her legs dangling off the bed. Which brought up another point: Sophie.

She was going to kill him. Right after she emptied his bank accounts and slashed his tires. That is if she came back. At this point Nate suspected she would never return from her soul-searching journey.

"Oh, this is not good," Nate muttered, his head falling into his palm. It occurred to him that Maggie had said something. "What'd you say? Something about ham?"

"I _said_, 'You might as well get dressed since you said you'd take Sam to his soccer game today,'" Maggie wrapped a silken robe that Nate recognized from Before around herself. "I'll be downstairs making breakfast." She paused at the door. "Make sure he's ready before he comes down, okay?"

Nate's mouth opened and closed a few times. He couldn't form the words "Is this some kind of joke?" so he settled for the far more articulate: "_Ngh_." Maggie gave him a funny look.

"Alright," she drew out the vowels, "I'll take that as a yes." She flashed him a sweet smile and went into the hallway. She smiled like she did Before, not guarded or pitying like After. Nate got out of bed. This didn't feel like a dream, but how else could he wake up in his old house with his ex-wife? Sam was dead. That was the painful truth, and this was just a different version of the twisted nightmares he had every night.

Nate blinked back a sudden wetness in his eyes. _Damn allergies_. Of course, it wouldn't hurt to be sure. A powerful force greater than himself propelled him out the door and down the hallway three doors down. He paused outside of the door. His breath came out hitched and uneven; when he reached for the doorknob his hand shook. He opened the door like one might open a tiger's cage.

His breath left him completely when he saw a wiry dark-haired boy curled up under a superhero patterned comforter. It was Sam; a few years older and a nearly a foot taller, but it was Sam, alright. Nate did the math in his head. His son would be, what, twelve? _A middle schooler_, he thought affectionately.

"Sam?" Nate's voice cracked. "Sam, it's time to wake up." He gently reached down and shook the boy's bony shoulder, fearing the illusion would disappear the moment he touched him. That's usually how his nightmares went. Sam stayed where he was and Nate let out a sigh of relief. Dream or not, in that moment Nate decided he didn't want to wake up.

"Go 'way, Dad," Sam covered his head with the blanket.

Nate crossed his arms. He had forgotten how stubborn his son could be. "Mom's making pancakes." Well, he hoped she was.

The pre-teen shot out of his tangled sheets. "Why didn't you say so?" Sam grinned impishly. He stood about five foot four (which was huge for a twelve-year-old with the Ford family genes), had Maggie's eyes, and Jimmy Ford's smirk.

Maybe he was experiencing a coma-induced hallucination, Nate had read those could be deceptively vivid. He wanted to thump his head against the wall. _Stop thinking and enjoy this while it lasts_, he told himself sternly.

"Whoa, slow down there, Sam," Nate never wanted to stop saying his name. "You have a game to get ready for." His son grumbled, but started pulling a jersey and other clothing from small piles on his bedroom floor.

"Are you going to be at the match this time?" Sam pulled knee-high socks over his shin guards. "It's the final qualifier round before the big one."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Nate said truthfully. Sam gave him a doubting, but simultaneously hopeful, look. He shrugged, quickly masking his emotions with a blank look. _A natural grifter_, Sophie's voice murmured to Nate's ears only.

"Good, 'cause Mom said that if you miss another she'll personally hand in your two-weeks," the boy tugged on a blue shirt that displayed his number (eight) and team (Santa Ana Electric). "Whatever that means."

Santa Ana, Nate mused, the old house in the old town, just like Before. He must still work at IYS. Of course that made sense, the only reason he left (read: got fired) was because of Ian Blackpoole's role in Sam's death. He did wonder what Sam meant by "another"; the thought made him frown.

"Hurry up, kiddo," he ruffled his son's hair, marveling at how quickly he accepted what was happening. "Don't want Mom to eat all the food, do you?" Sam grinned.

"I'd like to see her try," he said. "Race you down? First one down gets first pick."

Nate's responding "You're on," was cut off by Sam slamming the door in his wake. Nate grinned.

Maggie had not, in fact, made pancakes, but both father and son settled for french toast without argument or complaint. Breakfast was a pleasant blur to Nate. It was like someone had pressed rewind on his life and set it back to Before. He wanted to ask Sam so many questions: who were his friends, what did he like to do, how had he survived his illness? Nate figured there would be time, pushing away any doubts that there wouldn't, and asked the standard questions a father would ask his son over breakfast.

Sam answered him eagerly, still at the age when sons wanted nothing more than to please their fathers. From the odd looks Nate received from Maggie, he had a feeling there was more to it than that, but like all his negative thoughts today, he ignored it. Sam was in the middle of recounting the story of how he had rendered his English teacher speechless by only answering questions in fluent pig Latin when Maggie interrupted.

"Boys," she said firmly, but kindly. "The game's in twenty minutes and you have to check in with Coach Mathers at 9:50, remember?" Sam rolled his eyes. He and Nate sighed at the same time.

"Yes, Fearless Leader," Nate replied in his best Russian accent (which was not necessarily inaccurate, but unarguably terrible). Sam smiled shyly at his father, sneaking a sidelong glance in Maggie's direction to see if Nate's actions were throwing her off too. Her surprised laugh confirmed it.

"Well, _Spasiba_," she managed to say. "Now _go_."

Sam was quiet on the ride over to the youth soccer fields. Nothing Nate said drew him out of his head.

"Sam?" Nate parked a sensible silver mini van he hadn't known he owned next to another sensible navy blue mini van. "Is something wrong? Are you nervous? It's normal, you know, if you-"

"Are you leaving or something?" Sam said so softly that Nate thought he had misheard him. "Do you have another business thing this month and that's why you're acting like this?"

"What do you mean, 'acting like this?'" Nate heard something he never thought he'd hear in his son's voice: accusation. "I'm not acting like anything."

"Dad," Sam sighed, in a tired and resigned way that made him seem older than twelve, "the only time you do this is when you're leaving."

Something broke inside Nate.

The picture became clear in his head. In whatever dream or alternate universe he'd found himself in, he was an inconsistent figure in his son's life. He was the absentee father, the here-today-gone-tomorrow insurance investigator, and Sam knew it. Nate thought back to Before. It had been like that then too. His guilt about it was one of the many reasons he reached for the bottle. Here (wherever that was), Sam was alive and healthy, but Nate was the same as he'd been four years ago.

"No," he said finally. "I'm not leaving."

Sam let himself smile sheepishly. "So you're just being nice?"

"I'm making up for lost time," Nate said. He meant every word. Satisfied with his answer, Sam grabbed his sports bag and hopped out of the car. Nate followed slowly after, thinking back on the exchange. His cell vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, saw the name that came up, and looked to see Sam talking to a twenty-something woman with a whistle and a clipboard before he answered.

"Sterling, if this wastes even a second of my time, I will ruin you," he warned. He'd been telling the truth more often than usual since he woke up. What an odd feeling.

"Nate," Jim Sterling's voice held none of the menace he expected. Nate realized that, in this universe, he and Sterling were more than likely still friends and partners at IYS. "You're terrifying when you're sober, you know that?"

_Sober?_

"Right," Nate settled with, after debating how to answer him.

"Anyway, I think you'll be interested to learn that you're hunch was spot on," Sterling continued. "You'd better head over to that little museum home to the missing Manet or you'll miss all the fun."

"And what kind of fun can I look forward to?" He said uneasily.

Nate could hear Sterling's conceited smirk even over the phone. "The kind involving our favorite femme fatale, of course."

* * *

_Somewhere dank and dark and dangerous, Nathan Ford smiled dreamily as his head lolled to the side. An unearthly pale hand trailing blue fire delicately caressed his face and neck before sliding the needle out of a major artery in the latter. The hand brought the tube to a mouth set in a heavily tattooed face. The Djinn closed his eyes, tasting the man's happiness and anticipation. _

_Yes, the Djinn knew, he would savor this one._

* * *

A/N: It's funny, this was actually the first thing I wrote for this story. I love the whole "Be careful what you wish for" aspect of the Djinn. I won't normally write author notes at the end of chapters, but I just wanted to share that bit. Reviews are appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This is probably the shortest chapter I have written for this story, but it felt right to end it where I did. Thanks be to KyleRay, LeeMarieJack, floralisette, Murakami no Kitsune, and Alice of Scots for the kind reviews. Onto chapter three!

* * *

Eliot moved into the open space previously occupied by two men he determined were not Nate's kidnappers. One of them, Sam, had taken Nate's earbud, but the hitter was still curious to what else they had seen. The phrase _four empty juice pouches_ came to mind. He searched for a door or other opening.

Hardison pushed at one of the IV stands, which looked out of place in the otherwise empty warehouse. "Creepy," he murmured.

Sophie sat against a wall, holding her head in both hands. She couldn't believe that Nate was missing, couldn't wrap her head around the possibility of never seeing his stupid, arrogant, handsome, brilliant face again. When Eliot had called her, she had hoped it was one of Nate's tricks. Hell, she had _wanted _it to be so she could properly chew him out. But now...

She just wanted him safe.

Eliot found his door... and immediately backed out of it. The look on his face was one Hardison never thought he'd see the hitter make. It wasn't blind terror, but something that spooked the hacker even more. It was the quiet resignation of a man faced with something he couldn't fight.

"What is it?" he asked, startling Sophie from her thoughts. Eliot just shook his head.

"Don't go in there," his voice sounded strained. Curiosity not just tickled, but poked sharply with a stick, Hardison moved towards the door. "Hardison," Eliot said with deadly calm. "I swear to God, if you take another step, I'll dislocate your arm."

"What is it?" the hacker repeated, but stalled. Eliot muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "_four empty juice pouches"_. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing good," Eliot said a bit louder. "Come on. Let's pick up Parker and get the Hell away from here."

Whatever he had seen, scared him. And that scared Hardison.

Eliot made them wait inside as he checked to make sure the two men had actually left. The vintage car was gone. Eliot gestured to his team in the shadows.

"Parker, the coast's clear," he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. She didn't answer.

"Parker?" Sophie called, getting an uneasy feeling in her chest.

"_I can't really talk right now,_" Parker breathed over the comms.

"Oh no," said Sophie, looking at where the car had been parked.

Hardison pulled a hand down across his mouth and chin. "Please don't tell me you're in that car."

"_Yep_."

"Hold on, Parker, we're coming for you," Sophie said, walking briskly for the van. "Just keep your head down and don't get caught."

"_No_."

"'No?'" Eliot asked, too shocked to say anything else.

They heard the thief sigh. "_Just trust me on this. You work on finding Nate, I'll stick with the Impala guys._"

They really couldn't do much about it, besides running down the two men in Not Lucille, grabbing Parker, and hauling ass out of Nebraska. The more Eliot thought about it the more he started liking the idea. He reminded himself that they came here to find Nate and, damn it, that's what they were going to do.

An odd expression crossed Sophie's features. "When did she get so bossy?" she asked the boys.

"When you left," Eliot said at the same time Hardison replied with, "About right after you ditched us."

"Oh."

* * *

A sneeze tickled Parker's nose. She held her breath, managing to smother the sneeze before it happened. The floor of the backseat smelled much worse than the front, she noticed. And the jackets she was lying under probably hadn't been washed in several months. Ew.

Thankfully, neither of the two men had payed attention to the back seat or the blonde woman hiding in it; they had just tossed something in the trunk and drove off.

Parker wasn't one hundred percent sure what her plan was. Or if she had a plan. But something about this felt right (or, at the very least, not wrong). Whatever happened, she was unwilling to give up the journal, and gripped it tighter with every bump and turn in the road. She even considered taking out her earbud so the others wouldn't hear about the creatures described on the pages. She felt oddly protective of the knowledge.

She hoped her boys would never find out about them. Hardison would have a heart attack of joy, if there was such a thing. Eliot would probably just punch something.

The thief turned her attention to the Impala guys. They were arguing about the music, which was currently loud, fast, and angry. After a few minutes, the driver gave in and switched the cassette for another. The next song that played was loud, fast, and mildly frustrated. The man riding shotgun looked happy with the change; Parker couldn't understand it.

"So what's Plan B, Sammy?" the driver asked, turning down the music. "Go door to door?"

Sammy snorted. "Sure, let's just ask the tight knit community if they've seen their friends or family dragging unsuspecting victims into their basements. That'll go over well."

Parker smiled against the plaid thing next to her face. She decided now would be a good time to de-comm herself. She slowly pulled the earbud out and tucked it in her pocket. _For later_, she promised.

The driver yawned. "I guess tomorrow means more research. _Friggin_' research."

"Oh come on, Dean, it's only," Sammy glanced at his watch, "ten, no need to wait for tomorrow." Dean groaned.

"The only thing I'm researching tonight is the local attractions. And by that I mean-"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Sammy hastily interrupted. Parker frowned, _she _didn't know what he meant. "Haven't you run out of desperate women yet? Two weeks is longer than you usually play in the same sandbox." _Oh_.

It was Dean's turn to snort. "Please, I haven't even made it through the unsatisfied housewives."

Sammy shook his head. "I can't believe we're related."

That was a new development. She had assumed they were just creature-hunting partners or something. Like Agent McSweeten and Agent Taggart, but with knives and church water. Parker examined the backs of their heads, the only parts of them she had seen so far. One head rose above the other and nearly brushed the ceiling. It moved when "Sammy" talked so she assumed it was his. The driver's head was obviously Dean's. They didn't look like brothers, she thought; they acted like how Eliot and Hardison did, and _they_ weren't related. Though Hardison did call Eliot "bro" a lot.

Huh. That was a lot to think about.

Maybe they were cousins.

The Impala drove under street lights, informing Parker they had reached a town. She figured it was Wiggins Peak (local bank showcased a I-850 Glen Reader from the '80s, Parker estimated a heist would take her one minute and fifty-two seconds in and out) based on how long they had been driving. She had memorized a map of the area on the drive from the airport.

From their conversation, she learned that the local motel was closed indefinitely after an inspection had found bedbugs. Parker wasn't aware bedbugs were real things. Dean was particularly upset at having to stay at a Bread and Breakfast.

"Why?" Sammy asked. "Mrs. Franklin has pie and everything."

"It's the principle of the thing, Sam," Dean thumped the steering wheel. "And her rat hates me."

"Maybe because you threw your boot at it."

"It was eating my jacket!" Dean exclaimed. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Uh, not throw your boot at it? Just a thought," Sam added. Dean stewed moodily and gunned the engine.

"Bite me."

He pulled into a small parking lot next to a two-story gingerbread house. It looked like a gingerbread house to Parker, anyway. She took a deep breath as the Impala was carefully parked as far away from the three other cars in the lot as possible without being in the neighbor's yard. Now came the hard part.

_This is gonna suck._

She sat up.

"Hi," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Okay, back to regular lengths, thankfully. Wowzah, guys, thanks again for the great feedback! Many thanks to Alice of Scots, floralisette, LeeMarieJack, KyleRay, and Murakami no Kitsune. Now, without further babbling on my part, here's chapter four.

* * *

"Sophie," Hardison stage-whispered from behind a hydrangea bush, "I have done a lot of bad things in my life, but this is the lowest, dirtiest trick I've ever pulled."

The grifter shrugged and felt under a welcome mat until her hand closed around a key. "Look, we're not doing anything wrong. It's like you said: dear old Marge doesn't actually _need _the place any more. And all her relatives live in Alaska so no one's coming to collect Grandma's fine china anytime soon."

"We're three thieves living in a dead woman's house!" Hardison hissed. "What will the neighbors think?"

"If anyone asks," Sophie jiggled the key in its lock before the door swung inward. "I'm Caroline Weaver, Marge's granddaughter, and you two are distant cousins come to collect your part of the inheritance." She ushered Eliot and Hardison into the empty house. "This is the only way we can stick close to Parker while trying to find Nate. Now I don't know what she's doing, but she asked us to trust her so we will. Understand?"

"I just don't like the idea of Parker trapped in a car with two men- uh, I mean strangers," he corrected himself, seeing the look in Sophie's eyes. "Strangers we found hanging around an abandoned building in the middle of the night."

"Parker can hold her own," Eliot said. "If she needs us she'll tell us. I vote we do what she wants and find Nate before the other guys."

The hitter shined a flashlight over the floral-printed living room set. It was just the atrocious interior design that Sophie hoped she never succumbed to as she grew older. The whole house smelled like rose water too. As the beam of light swept through the room, two sets of eyes under the sofa momentarily reflected back. A feral growl welcomed them to the late Marge Weaver's home.

* * *

"Hi," Parker said.

Two heads whipped around. _Zoinks!_ Parker could almost hear the cartoon sound effects. For a moment, both men were paralyzed by the unexpected sight of a pretty blonde woman in their back seat. Dean reacted first.

"Who the Hell are you?" he reached for his gun. Sam quickly grabbed his arm before he could shoot Parker point-blank.

"Dean," he warned. "Ask questions first, shoot later. Remember?"

"I asked her. Fair's fair," Dean kept the handgun trained on Parker.

"So this looks bad," Parker leaned away from the gun, eying her exits. She hugged the journal to her chest.

"Yeah, you could say that," Dean replied, falling back on sarcasm as he always did when he was taken by surprise. Sam stared at the book in her arms.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, reaching for the journal.

"No where," Parker shimmied away from his hands. "I found it." She opened her mouth to say "It's mine" but figured claiming the property of two armed men wasn't the smartest move. She snapped her teeth at Sam's fingers when they got to close.

Maybe this hadn't been the best of plans.

"Hey," Dean realized he was losing control of the situation to a girl imitating _Jaws_, "you never answered my question." Parker stared at the business end of his gun. _What would Sophie do? _

Parker bolted. _Not that, probably. _She sprinted across the parking lot, vaguely aware of the two men loudly arguing as they slammed the Impala doors shut. She neared the white picket fence that divided the lot from a neighboring yard, tucked the journal under her arm like a football, and dove over the top... only to be caught around the waist and dragged backwards. _And definitely not that. _

She kicked at the hands grabbing her, but they were stronger than even an adrenaline-fueled thief. Sam pinned her arms to her sides and waited for Dean to catch up. The shorter man (in comparison to the giant) grinned and dangled something silver in front of her face.

"You stole from the wrong car, sweetheart," Dean clasped the handcuffs around Parker's wrists. She tried her hardest not to smile. "FBI, you little - Ow!" Parker bit his hand, already out of the cuffs and Sam's grip. Sam started after her, but his wrist jerked back to Dean.

"She cuffed us," his eyes widened at the chain linking him to Dean. "How did she do that?"

"Does it matter? She bit me!" Dean pushed him forward, propelling him towards Parker's retreating figure.

Parker smirked. _Sloppy_, she thought triumphantly. She was ready to vault over the fence and make her exit stage left, when she felt something missing. Namely, the journal. That damned thing had gotten her into this mess and Parker wasn't leaving without it. She sharply pivoted. It lay directly between her and the handcuffed men.

She hesitated, catching Sam's eye. He dove; she _leaped_.

Sam easily snatched up the journal, only to realize too late it wasn't her target. She barreled into Dean, knocking Sam off his feet using Dean's weight. Parker swiped the journal from the younger man as he tried to get up.

"Dean, where the Hell are the keys to these?" Sam dragged his brother behind him. He didn't look ready to give up the journal either.

"Impala!" Dean yelled and matched Sam's pace as they set off after Parker.

Parker was fast, she knew she was fast, and normally two men essentially attached at the hip wouldn't stand a chance against her in a foot race. But this was not Parker's day. She didn't know whose day it was, but it sure as Hell wasn't hers.

Parker tripped over something small and furry and fast.

It took her a second to realize she was no longer running, but falling at a rather terrifying speed. The air painfully whooshed out of her lungs as she hit the pavement. Parker moaned and heard something like a toothpick being snapped in half. It wasn't a good sound. A ball of fur yapped excitedly in her ear. Adrenaline had her up, but her momentum was gone and all she could do was limp away only a little faster than a crawling toddler.

Sam scooped her up without so much as a kick in retaliation.

"Good boy, Mr. Muffin," Dean cooed, scratching the long-haired chihuahua behind its ears. "Aren't you a good rat? Yes, you are."

"Dean, stop playing with the dog and get us out of these cuffs," Sam slung Parker over one shoulder and carried her over to the Impala. She stubbornly clung to the journal, even as her (probably) broken rib knocked painfully against Sam's back. A light went on in the B'n'B.

Dean picked up the yapping dog and dug the handcuffs' keys out of the glove box. Sam gently set down Parker, warning her that if she ran he wouldn't stop Dean from using firepower. She didn't believe him, but didn't have the energy or motivation to risk it. The gingerbread house's front door opened and a thin rail of an old woman stepped onto the porch just as Dean shoved the handcuffs into the car.

"Mr. Muffin?" she called. The dog squirmed in Dean's arms. With a huff, it jumped free and pitter-pattered up to its mistress. "Oh, Muffy-wuffy, there you are! I was so worried I'd never find you." Dean had the decency to look guilty when Sam glanced accusingly at him.

Parker wrinkled her nose. Did people actually talk like that?

"What are we going to do about _her_?" Sam whispered, gesturing to Parker.

"Well, we can't let her go," Dean said, looking at the thief closely for the first time. "_Chirsto_." He was disappointed when nothing happened.

Sam snorted. "I don't think Mrs. Franklin would let two men bring a strange girl to their rooms in the middle of the night."

Dean smiled, looking between Parker's pissed expression to Sam's exhausted one. "You're right, little brother. But you know what she'd be all for?"

"Oh no."

"Oh _yes_."

_Drat_, thought Parker.

Dean got something out of the glove box, which to Parker seemed like the Impala's version of Mary Poppins' carpet bag. He shoved a key ring onto Parker's finger and an identical one onto Sam's.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," he smirked. Sam glared at him. "_Mazel tov_."

Oh man, Parker realized, she was in deep, deep-

* * *

"Cats!" Sophie pushed one off her lap only to have another jump on. "Who leaves this many cats alone in a house? The hair alone, and all over the furniture... Not to mention the ethics of it. It's terrible."

Hardison stroked a white long-haired cat in his arms. He grinned devilishly. "I think I'm gonna call this little guy Machiavelli." Eliot rounded a corner, two tabbys following closely behind. They mewed at him and arched their backs against his legs.

"She had ten cats locked in here," he shuffled back into the living room turned Leverage home base. Hardison's laptop and tablet were set up, though a few curious kitties tapped experimentally at both.

"It's animal cruelty, is what it is," Sophie lifted a Siamese to eye level. "You can see the neglect in their eyes." The cat meowed, wiggling uncomfortably in the grifter's hands.

"We can call PETA later," Hardison brushed a small gray cat off his laptop and sat down next to the grifter. Machiavelli growled and spat when the hacker tried to move him. "Right now we got a Nate to find." He reached around the fluffy cat on his lap to get to the keyboard.

"The guys in the warehouse said that Nate wasn't the only one missing," Eliot said, pulling an orange tabby off a chair and sitting down.

"Already on it," Hardsion didn't look away from his screen. "Alright, police records show six missing persons in the past three years, two of which were reported in the last month."

"Anything connecting them?" Eliot leaned forward. He wasn't happy about stumbling into a kidnapping case, but now that Nate was involved he added two more to the list of people he was going to get back to their families. He already knew four of the missing locals would only be returned in caskets.

Hardison's fingers flew across the keyboard. "Ah, the last two, Vincent Belke and David Wi- uh, hold on- _Wiezt-tuh-zkew-ch- _um, something Polish, were high school students. Actually disappeared at the same time. Vinnie's Toyota was found parked just outside of town with certain evidence that led police to think they were together before their disappearances. You want to know what the kids called the place?" Hardison waggled his eyebrows at his silent audience. "Wow, tough crowd," he muttered to Machiavelli, who flipped his tail disdainfully.

"Hardison, if you don't cut the crap, I will beat it out of you," Eliot said seriously.

"Shaggin' Peak, ya know, like Wiggins Peak, but for sexy times."

"Yikes, small town like this? That's got to be quite the scandal," Sophie shook her head sympathetically.

"You don't know the half of it," Hardison said, warming up to the story. His expression animated like he was discussing his favorite soap opera. "Seems young David's family took personal offense to two hot-blooded American boys doin' the do and told Vinnie's father, AKA Sheriff Belke, AKA brother of Lieutenant Belke of the state police - who is also the lead investigator on the case - that they didn't even _want _to find David or Vinnie."

"Oh, those poor boys," Sophie stroked the Siamese (which she had named Grisha after the infamous con man, Grigory Ilyich Pavlenko, inventor of the Moscow Middleman scam). "We have to find them. And Nate, of course."

"How far outside of town was the car found?" Eliot asked, batting a delicate black cat away from his lap. The cat curled up next to his thigh and began to purr.

"About five minutes out," Hardison shrugged. "But the state police already swept the whole area. Nothing's there."

"That's where we'll start," Eliot said and retreated to his thoughts.

Sophie gave him a worried glance. Eliot had been... _distant_ since the warehouse. She didn't know what spooked him, but whatever it was had brought out a side of him Sophie had hoped was long buried. The hitter kept a cool exterior, but that didn't fool a grifter. No, something was eating at Eliot.

With its mastermind gone, the team was fracturing and Sophie didn't know how much longer she could band-aid it together. Not with Parker off gallivanting on her own and Eliot shutting them out. She saw only one way to fix whatever had broken.

They had to find Nate.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Lawdy, I had no idea the cats would be so popular. Just gonna tuck that knowledge away for future reference. So much gratitude to the lovely Alice of Scots, the awe-inspiring LeeMarieJack, the iconic floralisette, the crème de la crème LyleRay, and the cookie on the top of the cookie jar Loonyloops. Thanks also to casual readers and people who have followed or favorited! Now let's check up on Nate, shall we? I should warn you that I made up the painting, but it's based on the very real relationship (or lack there of) between two very real artists (Edouard Manet and Berthe Morisot).

* * *

At first glance, the museum was nothing more than a little hole-in-the-wall Indie gallery whose main attendees dressed in black and performed slam poetry in low-lit coffee shops. It was squeezed between a secondhand book shop and a run-down sports bar. Its front door was wide-open, attracting visitors as much as a dog whistle lures cats. Which is to say, it didn't. In fact, apart from a bored-looking girl at the front desk and an elderly couple arguing about the artist's _true meaning _behind one painting, the museum was empty. Only three people in the immediate vicinity knew the real worth of what hung on its walls.

Nathan Ford was one of them.

He stood, hands in pockets, across the street from the gallery. With a calculating eye, he watched the few pedestrians that ventured down this street. A bicyclist who made a wrong turn, the single mother who lived above the bar, a couple avid readers looking to score at the book shop. None of them concerned him.

He was there to see a woman.

"If it isn't the White Knight," an amused voice said to his right. "_Love_ the hair, by the way. The slick look was just not you."

Nate didn't bother turning, but the corners of his lips twitched. "Hello, Sophie."

The grifter smiled softly at the sound of her alias. _The _alias, rather. The name that fellow con men and thieves admired, cursed, and gossiped about over drinks.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods, Mr. Ford?"

"The art," Nate said simply. He tried to hide his nerves. After two years of working closely with Sophie, he knew her tricks and her tells, but the woman standing next to him wasn't _his _Sophie. Maggie was one thing, hell, she wasn't too different in this dream world. Sam, on the other hand, had thrown him. But not even the resurrection of his son prepared him for this.

Sophie Devereaux: pre-Leverage Consulting and Associates. If that wasn't terrifying enough, he now had to pretend she and the team weren't the closest thing he had to family. Of course, _here _that wasn't exactly true. The team didn't exist and his real family was still intact.

Sophie laughed and Nate tried to keep his heart from clenching at the sound. "You know, most people go inside galleries for that, they don't loiter across the street from them."

"We aren't most people," Nate said, the old banter coming back to him like no time had passed. If he was honest with himself, he had missed it. He looked at Sophie for the first time. Her dark eyes were hauntingly out of place in this universe. She belonged with Eliot, Hardison, and Parker: with _him_. Even if she was God-knows-where looking for herself or whatever it was she was trying to accomplish, her home was an Irish pub in Boston, Massachusetts. The feeling of wrongness he got from the whole situation drove a sharp wedge through the joy he had felt with Sam.

"No," she replied, sighing at the museum front. "I suppose we aren't. It's been a while since we've run into each other, Nate. Since Tuscany, I believe."

"Sounds right," Nate said warily, vaguely remembering Tuscany... or maybe that was Paris? "I heard you went honest."

"That's right," Sophie didn't sound too happy about it. "I play outfield for the angels now."

"It's not so bad," Nate smiled. The (ex) grifter gave him a look.

"I always thought you'd make a marvelous thief," she said thoughtfully.

"Please, Sophie," Nate chuckled knowingly. "I'd be the best." Sophie joined in, shaking her head at his arrogance. Nate held out his arm. "What do you say, should we be most people for an afternoon?"

"Why, Mr. Ford," Sophie said coyly, batting her lashes and taking his arm, "if I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to woo me."

"You'd be wrong, Ms. Devereaux," Nate replied. Sophie didn't know just how wrong, exactly, she was.

But she would.

The girl at the desk glanced up from her cell phone long enough to tell them not to touch anything, then purposefully ignored them. Nate nearly rolled his eyes. No wonder Sophie had targeted the gallery. They stood in front of a smallish frame furthest from the door. It depicted a woman in black, her head angled sharply, nearly to profile, and her eyes stared out confidently- Sophie would insist "teasingly"- from hooded lids.

"Beautiful isn't she?" Sophie breathed. "I love all Manet's work, but this," she paused, "this is my favorite: _Berthe Morisot at Midafternoon._" Nate couldn't see anything incredibly special that set this work apart from any other Manet so he figured there was a story behind it. "The woman in the painting was his sister-in-law, and a fellow impressionist. Berthe Morisot, the woman in black. He painted this in secret, never showing it to anyone. You see how the strokes are hurried yet still meticulous? Almost as if he was doing it as she sat there, hoping she wouldn't move before he finished."

Nate tried to look at it through her eyes. His gaze flickered over the brushstrokes, and for a brief second he thought he understood. But his mind was soon distracted by clocking the security around the painting, which of course was insured by IYS.

"Some call it the missing Manet," he said, noticing the pressure-sensitive glass the canvas was mounted beneath. Sophie nodded, still entranced by the painting.

"It was discovered in Morisot's possession after her death, and then it went missing for over fifty years before resurfacing again in New York. It's been lost, stolen, and bought many times before coming here," she explained. "But it's the woman that draws me to it. The muse and her painter."

_A love story_, Nate realized with a smile. When everything was said and done, Sophie Devereaux was just a hopeless romantic.

"So," he whispered, leaning closer to her, "how would you steal it?"

"Oh, Nate," Sophie sighed wistfully. "Don't tease me like that. You know I'm not that person anymore." There was longing in her eyes. She wanted- no, she _coveted_- this painting.

Nate knew her, better than anyone else did, possibly even better than herself (no matter how much soul-searching she did) and immediately recognized the voice she reserved for marks. Her longing was calculated and he only saw it because she wanted him too. She was right, she wasn't _that person_ anymore, but she was still Sophie Devereaux. She wasn't going to steal this painting.

But only because she already had.

"You want to know how I'd do it?" Nate asked, hating himself for what he was about to do. He could always stop, just walk away, but one thought of Sam and he steeled himself. _I'm not doing this for Sterling,_ he told himself, _I'm doing this for Sam._

Sophie was uneasy for a moment, but let herself relax. "The White Knight playing my side? Now that's something I'd like to see."

And that was all it took to get the Great Sophie Devereaux on the hook. Nate wasn't surprised; thieves don't expect a con from an honest man.

It had been a while since he thought of himself as honest.

"Now, my father would go for a simple Smash 'n' Grab, but something like this takes... finesse," Nate gestured to the painting. "The gallery's small but the painting is better protected than the president. Twenty-four hour surveillance, pressure-sensitive casing, lasers, the whole nine-yards. I know of only one thief skilled enough to steal it from the wall. No, what I'd do, is make the curator doubt its authenticity, then sell them a fake. I get the painting, and some spending money to sweeten the deal." Sophie paled, her mouth a thin line. Nate wished he could stop the words coming from his mouth, but it was too late. "And hide the real painting in a storage facility on the other side of town. By the docks, maybe."

Four years ago, this would have meant victory.

_"You'd better head over to that little museum home to the missing Manet or you'll miss all the fun."_

Nate glanced down. "Are those new shoes, Sophie?" She glared at him, all the friendliness she had displayed was gone now. He had to remind himself again that this wasn't _his _Sophie. He kept his sight locked on (the fake) _Berthe Morisot at Midafternoon._ The painted woman's eyes glared accusingly.

"You wanker," she hissed and turned on her heel. She stopped next to the front desk. A stocky man leaned in the doorway, blocking her exit.

"Nice to see you again, Jenny," Jim Sterling smiled. "I see you've met my good friend Nate Ford."

"Nate," Sophie said sharply, ignoring Sterling. "_Nate_."

He slowly turned around. The grifter's eyes mirrored Morisot's.

"Is this true?"

"Meh," Nate shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. Avoidance was his fall-back response."We're colleagues."

Sophie's expression turned desperate. "Nate, please. I'm honest now, I swear this was my last con. The fake's just as good as the original so no harm done, really. Nate? _Look at me, damn you!_" She shouted at him. Nate couldn't meet her eyes. Sophie stared at him, quivering with rage and betrayal. When he didn't move, she sagged. Behind her, several police officers and a detective entered the gallery behind Sterling. The girl behind the front desk leaned forward excitedly. It wasn't everyday she got to witness the arrest of an art thief.

"Connie White," the detective strapped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists, "alias Jenny Winslow, alias Annie Croy, alias Felicity Shaw, alias Sophie Devereaux, alias-"

"You can stop there," Sterling winced. "Save it for the paperwork, boys."

"Right, well, who ever you are, you're under the arrest for art fraud, theft, impersonating an officer of the law..." the detective went on, listing a handful of Sophie's many crimes. She never stopped watching Nate.

"You did this," she said without inflection as they led her out. "This is your fault, Nate, and I will never forgive you."

Sterling sauntered triumphantly over to Nate. "You finally did it," he grinned. "This is cause for celebration."

"Yes it is."

"Then how come you look like I just shot your puppy?" Sterling asked softly, almost as if he was concerned. Though occupational rivalry had eventually made them into little more than professional colleagues, Nate could still remember a time, long, long ago, when he considered Sterling a friend. Maybe they still were, in this universe. "Nate?"

"I need a drink," Nate groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sterling frowned. "You're not drinking again, are you?"

Nate froze. "Ah." _He had stopped?_ "I need to pick up Sam from his soccer game." He escaped the gallery and Sterling's disturbing companionship. What kind of nightmare had him betray Sophie and celebrate with Sterling? A treacherous little voice in his head asked him if this was worth Sam's life.

_Yes_, was the answer. Sam meant more than anything else. He would watch the whole world _burn_ if it meant that Sam would be happy.

Thankfully, the game was still going on when Nate parked next to the navy mini-van for a second time. He jogged over to the woman Sam had talked to.

"I'm looking for Sam?" he asked.

Coach Mathers smiled amiably. "You must be Mr. Ford. He's playing right now, actually. You're just in time."

Nate followed her pointed finger until he saw the scrawny boy with an eight on his back. His worries disappeared the moment his son caught sight of him and waved, a grin lighting up his young face.

The world didn't seem so terrible any more.

* * *

_The Djinn caressed and petted Nate's head until the man relaxed and a wave of euphoria rushed through him. The Djinn tasted the happiness the man felt, and his eyes flashed blue. He sighed at the emotions in the man's blood. _

_This man felt emotions more deeply than the other two. The Djinn glanced at the pale scarecrows in the other corner. No matter, they wouldn't last much longer._

_The Djinn tenderly brushed back the man's hair from his forehead. Blue flames kissed the man's pallid skin. A second tattooed hand, this one smaller than the first, reached out to Nathan Ford's wrists and gently massaged the raw flesh._


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Okie dokie, we've finally reached my personal favorite, chapter six! I guess for warnings: spoilers for season four of Supernatural, but if you haven't seen it yet, then stop reading this and watch it now. Also, if anyone was wondering, this takes place after the episode "Criss Angel is a Douchebag" in Supernatural and "The Bottle Job" in Leverage. Thank you kindly to LeeMarieJack, floralisette, Alice of Scots (lovely, dear, beautiful Alice, I was not able to reply to your review, but please know that it brought me much joy), and Murakami no Kitsune. Onwards.

* * *

"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in a separate room, Mr. Ramone?" Mrs. Franklin tried to peer around Sam, rubbing the top of Mr. Muffin's head. Sam narrowed the gap between the door and the frame with a pleasant smile and soft eyes.

"No, thank you. My, um, wife and I will be just fine in this one. We're on a tight budget," he said. Fine wrinkles in Mrs. Franklin's brown face deepened as she pursed her lips incredulously.

"How nice of your _wife_," the woman emphasized the word, "to meet up with you and your brother. It's very unexpected."

Sam responded with what he hoped was a convincing laugh. "Ha, yeah, Stevie loves surprises. Thank you again, Mrs. Franklin, and sorry for waking you up."

The owner of the fine establishment the Winchester brothers found themselves in raised an eyebrow. She had a fine idea of what _surprises_ "Stevie" had in store, but other than calling Sheriff Belke on the three of them on charges of suspected prostitution, there was nothing she could do. Besides, it was late and Muffy needed his sleep or he would be unbearable in the morning.

"Good night, Mr. Ramone," Mrs. Franklin said after a brief interlude of disapproving glaring in Sam's direction. "And please remind your brother that this is a Bed and _Breakfast_ not a Bed and All You Can Eat Buffet. I will charge extra the next time he comes back for fourths."

"Got it, thanks," Sam smiled tightly. "Good night." He closed the door on Mrs. Franklin and her growling chihuahua (which really did look like a mutated rat).

Dean and Parker, her wrist cuffed to a headboard, sat on opposite beds, engaging in what could be perceived as an intense staring contest. Dean blinked first. He huffed and flopped onto his back, fingers laced behind his head.

"Dude, this is messed up," he said. "I hate Djinn."

"_Dean_," Sam hissed, gesturing meaningfully at the blonde on his bed. "Could you filter for once?"

His brother sighed. "What's the point? She's probably read Dad's journal already." And Sam could bitch at him all he wanted, Dean thought, but he'd gotten six hours of sleep in the last forty-eight and needed his full three hours tonight.

"Just tone it down, will you?" Sam grumbled as he sat next to Dean.

"Who's Stevie?" Parker asked.

"You are," the brothers answered in unison. Just like that, she was the center of attention again. Their own personal nightmare wrapped up in a crazy blonde thief who wouldn't let go of John Winchester's journal. Dean propped himself up on his elbow and raised an eyebrow at her. _That's just awesome_.

Parker shifted uncomfortably under their combined scrutiny. She brushed the spine of the journal; at least she still had that. And she could always taser them. She briefly enjoyed the mental image of the two men twitching on the carpet.

"It's rude to steal from people, you know," Dean told her in a patronizing tone. It was also rude to dig up graves, but he figured that even if his high ground was built on shaky foundation, it was still higher than the thief's and he was going to take it. Besides, she had bit him. He hadn't forgotten that.

"Try _illegal_," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Saw my Baby sitting there vulnerable and thought you could strip her bare, right?" Dean continued like Sam hadn't said anything. "Tough balls, Barbie, you messed with the FB-friggin'-I."

"Ha!" Parker snorted.

Two pairs of eyebrows shot towards the ceiling. "Don't believe me?" Dean scowled. His hand groped for the badge he kept in his jeans. "How 'bout them apples?" He pushed it into her face. Parker's eyes never left his. She didn't need to look at the ID to know it was a fake.

"I knew a ten-year-old who could make better forgeries."

Sam's head fell into his hands. "Oh, we are so screwed."

"And your glove box is full of badly faked badges," Parker wrinkled her nose. Maybe Hardison's work had spoiled her, but the IDs were amateur at best.

Dean frowned. "Excuse you, I put hours of blood, sweat, tears into making those."

"Dean, you spend twenty minutes in a printing outlet," Sam corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. The action reminded Parker of Eliot whenever Hardison said something particularly geeky. She felt an ache in her chest at the thought of her friends.

She was probably just hungry.

"So now you're on her side? Are my forgeries not good enough for you anymore?" Dean demanded, half-rising from the bed.

"What?" Sam asked, eyes wide in disbelief, "Are you serious right now? We've just kidnapped some girl who broke into our car _and handcuffed her to a bed_. And you want to argue about fake IDs?"

Dean huffed. "Make your own damn badge next time," he muttered. Parker's hands itched for her taser.

"Wait a minute," Sam narrowed his eyes at the thief. "We did handcuff her, right?"

_Oh._ Parker looked down at her blissfully uncuffed hands. _Right. _

"How does she keep on doing that?" Dean shook his head. He snatched up the cuffs and snapped one ring around her wrist and the other on his. "Stay," he sternly pointed his finger at her.

Sam treated him to a bitch-face. "She's not a dog, Dean."

"Ow!" Dean replied. "She bit me! Again!" He pulled as far away from Parker as the short chain allowed. She smiled sadistically. "Jesus, I'm getting a rabies shot after this is over."

"Okay, this isn't working."

"You think?" Dean said, exasperated.

"She's out again."

Parker waggled her fingers at him and scrambled towards the window; it was time to cut her losses and-

Sam caught her before she could leap from the second story window. He dragged her back into the room, thinking he was acting far too much like the pervy kidnapper Mrs. Franklin most likely suspected he was.

Dean sucked in a breath, then squinted at the blonde. A mischievous look came over his features. "Sam, I'm gonna need some duct tape."

"There is so much wrong with this," Sam told his brother when they had finished. They stood back to admire their handiwork. Parker's wrists were taped behind her back and her arms were pinned to her sides by layers and layers and _layers_ of duct tape. "We're definitely going to Hell."

"Calm down, Sammy," Dean clapped him on the back. "I've already done that. It's your immortal soul you've got to worry about." Sam punched his shoulder half-heartedly.

He tilted his head to the side, examining the solid inch of layered tape that encased Parker. "Don't you think the second roll was kinda overkill?"

"Nope," Dean rubbed his sore finger and tossed the taser they had found on her into his duffel bag. "Not even a little bit."

His brother sighed. "At least we can ask her questions without worrying about her taking a chunk out of you every five minutes."

"Alright, Cujo," Dean leaned forward until he was nose to nose with Parker. He put on his most menacing expression. "Who are you? Do you have a name or do we have to keep calling you _Stevie_?"

Parker opened her mouth to answer, then snapped it shut and glared sullenly at him. If only she had Sophie to talk her through this, or better yet, Eliot to beat them into two bloody, gooey pulps. She wished now that she hadn't taken out her earbud.

"Dean, back off," Sam said sharply. "She's just a car thief."

Parker's eyes flew wide. "Just a car thief?" she echoed coldly, seething beneath her blank face. "_Just _a car thief?"

"Um," Sam looked to Dean for support. "A really good car thief?"

_Don't blow your cover_, Parker repeated to herself. _You blow you're cover, you never find Nate. _She quivered with rage, her ego smarting from the giant's insult. _Oh, forget it. _Her lips parted, about to tell them how good a "car thief" she was.

"Lay off Stevie, Sam," Dean shoved his brother off his bed, saving Parker from making an irreversible mistake. "It's been a long day, we'll deal with her in the morning." He shucked off a few layers of clothing before glancing at Parker. She stared at him, head tilted to the side; she wondered how long he would last against Eliot. "This ain't a peep show, lady," he muttered.

Sam shook his head and turned away. "Unbelievable," he muttered. Parker didn't want to look at him, not after his slight, but she still had questions and Dean was... occupied.

"What's a Djinn?" she asked after mentally debating who she should taser first. _The giant_, she decided, _then the other if he pursues._ Sam looked caught up in the middle of his own internal dilemma.

"Nothing," he said too quickly, "it's just a story."

Parker rolled her eyes. "You're lying. Badly," she added. "Really badly."

"Why should I tell you anything?"

Parker's shoulders slumped. Good question.

He had caught her trying to steal his father's journal, he didn't owe her any kind of explanation. But what was it Nate had once told her? That the strongest lies were based in truth? It was worth a shot.

"My..." she started, wondering how much she could safely give away. _What would Sophie do? _She would make up a story about Nate being Parker's missing father or uncle, but that didn't feel right. "My friend is missing. And after reading what I did..." Parker tried to look as honest and innocent as she could. It was exhausting.

"You just want to know the truth," Sam finished for her, softening immediately. "I'm sorry."

Dean smiled when he saw his brother fall under the spell of the woman's puppy dog eyes. He was glad to see that Sam wasn't immune to his own tricks. Now freed from most of his clothing, he slid under the blankets, feeling clean sheets devoid of questionable stains. He shifted on the comfortable mattress and didn't feel a single lump or spring digging into his back.

_This is worse than Hell_, he thought gloomily. He missed all the discomforts of motel-living.

"Djinn are like the genies in stories, but instead of granting wishes, they make you hallucinate that your deepest wish comes true," Sam was telling the thief. "They feed off the blood and emotions of the people they trap."

"Like a spider," Parker said slowly. "How do you stop them?"

Sam choked down his surprise at her question. "Silver blade dipped in lamb's blood," he answered without thinking. After Dean's personal experience, Sam had read up on the lore and committed it to memory. Which reminded him... "Dean, have anything to add?"

Dean opened his eyes and looked solemnly at Parker. "If a Djinn touches you, you're toast. Not many people survive the blood loss, and even if they do, some never wake up. Sometimes," he said even softer, "sometimes the dream is hard to let go and it's easier to just go on being content even when you know you're dying. Reality's a bitch." He quickly added the last bit before the moment entered heart-to-heart territory.

Parker bit her lip. "Oh." But she had nothing to worry about, Nate would never leave them, right? _Right? _"Are you going to find it?"

"We will, we just need to figure out where it's hiding." Sam replied confidently and started going through his nightly routine. Emotionally numb, Parker sat uncomfortably on the floor while her (very broken) rib started to throb painfully. It was one thing to read about monsters, but to hear it from another person? She shivered and wiggled against the duct tape.

Dean seemed to notice because he stole some pillows and sheets from Sam's and his beds and made a nest for Parker between the two. Neither spoke and Dean's small gesture of kindness towards the thief was never mentioned again.

When Sam came back from the bathroom, he found Parker curled up in a tight ball in the middle of a pillow nest and Dean reclined in his bed, innocently reading from the Gideon Bible that Mrs. Franklin stocked in each room.

"Your face will stay like that if you're not careful," Dean warned him, not looking up.

"Like what?"

"Like I just shoved your gerbil through a woodchipper."

"What?" Sam found himself chuckling, though the mental image of that scenario was bound to scar him for life. "I don't have a gerbil."

Dean rubbed a tired hand over his stubble. Damn, he needed to shave. "Never mind." It was easier that way. He didn't want to talk about how things had been between them since he returned from Hell, or how freakin' _angels_ had gotten him out of Hell in the first place. And he _really _didn't want to talk about how his little brother had screwed (and possibly was still screwing) a demon while he roasted in the Pit.

"Okay?" Sam said quietly and carefully stepped around Parker. His gaze slid guiltily off her duct tape-restrained body as he got into bed. "Uh, good talk, Dean. Night."

"Yeah," Dean turned on his side to face away from his brother. "Ditto." With a small sigh, he let himself relax a little and settled into pillows softer than moon beams. He froze.

_Softer than moon beams? _He inwardly shuddered, horrified that he had just made that comparison. He needed a bad night's rest in a crappy pay-by-the-hour before this B'n'B permanently tarnished his soul with all its homey comforts.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, this chapter is a day late, but in my defense, I haven't had internet connection since Friday. So this chapter goes out to wifi miracles, everyone's had them at some point, when you get internet in strange places when you need it most. Also, a huge thank you to LeeMarieJack, Murakami no Kitsune, floralisette, and Alice of Scots. Onto lucky number seven.

* * *

Parker woke with a sharp pain in her chest, numb tingling in her hands, and off-key singing in her ears. The voice was low and soft, and what it lacked in tone (or skill) it made up for in enthusiasm. She opened one eye and squinted into the morning light that streamed through the window. Dean sat on the edge of his bed and tugged on his boots, humming a song Parker vaguely remembered hearing in the Impala. It was almost soothing, and the thief, in her semi-unconscious state, was inclined to pretend to sleep and listen to the nearly on-key baritone for a while longer. Dean, however, had other plans and prodded her with his toe when he saw her eyelids flicker. Parker lifted her head off the floor and glared at him.

"Rise and shine, sweetcheeks," he winked, stretching his arms up and arching his back like a cat. Parker heard a series of pops and cracks. She rolled up to a sitting position and leaned against a bed, moving her hands as best she could to get some feeling back into them. The pins-and-needles sensation was just beginning to get uncomfortable when someone knocked rhythmically on the door. Dean groaned, rubbing the crease in his brow. "I said _Smoke on the Water_, Sammy, not _Another One Bites the Dust_."

"Shut up," Sam said and slipped into the room. "You're just lucky I wasn't Mrs. Franklin."

"I think the whole world is lucky you aren't Mrs. Franklin."

"That wasn't- I- you don't- Can we figure out what to do with the girl we're holding prisoner in our room?" Sam sputtered and started pacing. He crossed the room, pivoted, and went on in the opposite direction.

Dean winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "It sounds creepy when you say it like that, Sam."

"That's because it is."

"What?" Dean said, looking at Parker for confirmation. "No, it's not."

"Little bit," Parker said hoarsely. "Little bit creepy."

"So?" Sam asked, pausing to face his brother. "What do we do now?"

Dean stared at Parker for what seemed like an eternity. "We," he said slowly, "are going to eat breakfast."

* * *

"I hate you," Hardison told Eliot.

"Thanks, Hardison."

"No, I actually, genuinely hate you."

"That's awesome, man."

"I don't think you understand how much I hate your guts and hair right now."

Eliot narrowed his eyes at the hacker, and heaved himself over the edge of the old quarry. "What the Hell does my hair have to do with it?" So _apparently_ Nebraska had old quarries with steep cliffs that came out of nowhere and _apparently_ it was somehow his fault that Hardison had fallen over one such cliff into one such quarry. But did he get any credit for climbing down and helping the computer geek out? No, of course not.

"You know, what? It's pissing me off, that's why," Hardison grumbled. He lay sprawled on his stomach, grasping and clutching the dry grass like a lifeline. "Wakin' me up at five in the morning and drivin' me out to Shaggin' Peak like it's nothing. Didn't even buy me dinner first."

"Hey, Hardison?"

"Yeah?"

"How 'bout you _shut up_?" Eliot shouted the last words. Sophie winced and rubbed her temple.

"Boys," she said softly. "That's enough." Both men looked away guiltily. "Much better. Now, I think we can all agree that Nate isn't here."

Eliot looked over the edge into the pit of exposed limestone. "There's a few caverns down there-"

"That a two-year-old couldn't squeeze through," Hardison interjected.

"I don't know what you were looking at while I _saved _your ass-"

"Well, last time I checked, it was your fault my ass needed saving to begin with."

"If you've got something to say, just go ahead and say it," Eliot snarled, clenching his hands into fists. "Either stop whining about it or man up, Hardison."

"Okay, yeah, I got something to say," the hacker rolled and got to his feet in the most uncoordinated way he possibly could. "I don't see why you're calling the shots all the sudden. Why are we frolicking through Nebraskan prairies and falling into quarries when we should be backing up Parker? Those guys knew something and we left her alone with them."

"She asked for us to leave her alone," the hitter forced himself to take a deep breath. "And she hasn't checked back in."

"And shouldn't we be, I don't know, _worried _about that?" Hardison took a step forward, his own hands curling into inexperienced fists.

Eliot's resolve to be calm broke. "You think I'd let her take that risk if I didn't know she could handle it? We gotta trust her on this, like Sophie said. Just because you've got a stupid crush on the woman doesn't mean we can stop looking for Nate!"

"Eliot," Sophie said sharply. "I said that's _enough_."

Eliot hesitated, stuck between the coiled spring of his anger and the soldier in him that recognized a command. Eventually, the soldier took over and he stood down, eyes staring unseeing past Sophie and Hardison.

"Look at yourselves," she hissed. "Fighting like children. That isn't going to help Parker and it certainly isn't going to find Nate. Hardison, Eliot is taking the lead on this because it's his _job_. Remember? Hacker," she pointed to Hardison, "grifter," she pointed to herself, "retrieval specialist," she gestured finally to Eliot. "He does more than punch things, you know." Before Eliot could look too smug, she rounded on him.

"But that doesn't mean you aren't being foolish, Eliot! Stop picking fights with your team, for one," Sophie scolded. "I don't know what happened in that warehouse, but whatever it is, don't you dare let it hurt this team. If you're distracted, it could mean a lot worse than falling into an old quarry next time. Understand?"

Eliot locked his jaw and nodded once.

"Good. Hardison?"

"Yeah, I get you," he muttered.

"Glad we got that settled," Sophie said drily. "Now if we're done here?" She looked expectantly at Eliot, who nodded again. "Then I say we deserve a break. Come on, boys, I saw a quaint little diner back in town."

The fact that the quaint little diner was called Sal's D'er because the middle letters had fallen off the sign didn't deter Sophie in the slightest. She walked in like she was born and raised in Wiggins Peak, like she belonged, and was pleasantly surprised to find the interior of Sal's clean and inviting.

The morning rush was starting to ebb when the three thieves settled into a booth in the far corner. Within seconds of sitting down, a young waitress with auburn-dyed hair zeroed in on them. "SHELLY" was printed on her name tag.

"Alright, what'll it be, strangers?" she flashed a tired smile and took out her notepad.

"Coffee for me," Eliot said, maneuvering himself so he could watch the door. He coldly ignored the rest of his team and focused on the patrons walking in and out. Hardison flicked through the menu the waitress had handed out and hummed indecisively. Sophie glanced at the breakfast selections with a look of horror.

"So much meat," she murmured, shaking her head.

"What was that, ma'am?" Shelly asked politely.

"I was admiring your meat-lovers' selections," Sophie flawlessly mimicked the woman's accent. "It's so... _extensive_."

"Best beef in the county," she confirmed with a nod. "The bacon's award-winning too."

"Lovely," Sophie said through a forced smile. She laid down the menu and folded her hands neatly over it. "I'll have the veggie omelette. No onions, please."

"And for you, good lookin'?" Shelly gave a suddenly rejuvenated grin to Hardison. He started, wide-eyed, and pointed a finger questioningly at himself.

"Uh, biscuits an-and gravy," he stuttered. "Please?"

"I'll have that right out for you," the waitress replied, jotting something down in her notes. The three thieves watched her hips sway conspicuously as she walked away.

"What just happened?" Eliot voiced what they were all thinking. The team stared at one another, all tension forgotten.

"My," Sophie laughed, breaking the dumbfounded silence, "things _have_ changed since I've been gone."

"_Yeeaah_," Hardison grinned and raised his fist. "That happened, give a brother some love!" Eliot half-heartedly fist-bumped him, though a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Cheer up, man," Hardison continued, "I'm pretty sure I saw the fry cook checkin' you out." Eliot tapped Sophie on the shoulder and nodded towards the front windows that allowed customers a lovely view of the parking lot.

The grifter froze. "Hardison-"

"What, can't I celebrate the small things in life?"

"Hardison-"

"Y'all just jealous. Well, buck up, cowboy. The pretty waitress hit on me."

"Damn it," Eliot swore. "Turn _around_, Hardison."

"What are you," Hardison twisted in his seat just in time to see a black Impala back out of Sal's parking lot and hightail it down the street. "Talking. About. Was that...?"

"Yeah," Eliot got his coat.

"Should we...?"

"Definitely," Sophie left a twenty dollar bill on the table.

* * *

Parker sighed in relief as the last of the duct tape was cut from her torso. Her wrists felt like they were being attacked by fire ants and without the bindings around her ribs the pain was intensified, but all things considered she was fine: great, even. That is, if the word "great" meant "pissed as Hell", then yeah, Parker was great.

She poked a finger at her injured side, hissing a bit. She measured how much pressure was needed to irritate it and decided it wasn't a major concern. She'd had worse.

Just. Great.

"Hey, you alright there, princess?" Dean asked gruffly, clapping her on the back a little harder than necessary and handing her over to Sam.

"Peachy," Parker gasped. "So peachy it hurts."

"Awesome," Dean smirked, grabbing his leather jacket from the floor. He glanced at his brother, who looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. "Sam, when you walk down, don't be weird about it. She's your wife, remember?"

Sam, to his credit, was attempting to act like Parker was his lawfully wedded wife and not his illegally held hostage. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, wrapping an arm around Parker's shoulders and smiling tightly. "We're the _freaking_ Brady's," he said through clenched teeth. Parker grimaced; her ribs were not liking married life so far.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the unhappy couple. "Just, try not to make it look like she's a hooker. Okay, Romeo?"

Everyone thought she was a hooker. From the road-tripping family of four, to the traveling salesman, to Mrs. Franklin herself. And if Mr. Muffin could have spoken or thought cognitively beyond running excitedly about, smelling _everything_, and dry humping the shih tzu next door, the little rat would have thought so too.

As such, Parker wasn't surprised when she was ushered out of the building as fast as possible. Or when she was shoved into the back seat of the Impala next to Sam. Or when Dean told her he was dropping her off at the nearest bus station with a one-way ticket to Anywhere Else.

But hitting an invisible monster in the parking lot of a family diner? That had thrown her.

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed when the front wheels rolled over something large as the Impala pulled into the lot. "What was that, a freaking elephant?" He slammed on the brakes and put the car into park before jumping out to inspect the damage. Sam sternly told Parker not to run before following his brother out.

"Nothing's there," Sam said, looking under the wheels.

"Well, it wasn't a speed bump."

Sam shrugged. "What else could-" A low growl that belonged somewhere far more infernal than Wiggins Peak interrupted him. "Uh," Sam backed away from the front of the Impala where the sound came from. "That's not a good sound."

"Sammy," Dean breathed, not moving an inch, not taking his eyes from the large dent in the front bumper, "get in the car. Now." The color drained from his face.

Sam noticed the change and wasted no time in falling next to Parker and pulling her down to the floor.

"What's happening?" she whispered, trying to peer over the seats. "Did we hit someone? Are they dead? Can I see the body?"

Sam shushed her and placed a large palm over her mouth. "Don't. Speak." He commanded quietly. Parker resisted her instinct to bite him and run, and stayed still. Dean suddenly dove into the drivers seat and backed out of the parking lot like all of Hell was on his heels.

Or, more specifically, a vaguely dog-shaped part of Hell that smelled of sulfur and wet fur and that enjoyed barking at the souls of the Eternally Damned for sport.

"What's a hellhound doing here, Sam?" Dean yelled as he pushed eighty miles per hour in a residential area.

"How should I know?" Sam shouted back, pulling Parker and himself back on the seats.

"Research is your thing, man!"

Sam _really _wanted to hit something. "So what, I need to look for signs of crossroads deals everywhere we go now?"

"That'd be awesome, yeah," Dean snorted and rummaged in the glove compartment with his free hand. "Damn it, where's the goofer dust?"

The younger pursed his lips at his brother's hectic behavior. "Trunk, I think. Look, we don't know what it's here for."

Parker blinked at the very empty road behind them. "We're being chased by an invisible dog?" That was new.

"It's not just a- Sam, fill her in before I friggin' _shoot_ her," Dean ground his teeth and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "I'm taking us to that warehouse. We can hole up there until we figure out what poor bastard is that thing's new chew toy."

"Why don't we head back and take it down before it hurts someone?" Sam suggested, tactfully avoiding an emotional confrontation with the skill of someone who's been doing it his whole life.

Dean slammed a hand against the steering wheel in frustration, but pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He squeezed his eyes shut, definitely _not _remembering shadowy creatures tearing through his body like it was tissue paper. He took a shaky breath.

"Is he okay?" Parker whispered loudly to Sam. "In the head?"

"Thanks, Vicky," Dean chuckled humorlessly. He opened his eyes and met Sam's gaze in the rear view mirror. "I'm fine."

Something heavy landed on the hood of the Impala, gouging parallel marks into the metal right where two massive front paws would be.

"Okay, not fine," he hissed, glaring at the damage to his baby. "Really not fine."

Dean grabbed a sawn-off from under the seat and tossed it back to Sam. A deep rumbling filled the air and seemed to vibrate in Parker's chest. Then as suddenly as it had started, the beast fell silent.

Nobody moved. Parker didn't think she breathed.

Sam cocked the shot gun and pointed it at the windshield. Dean lowered his handgun a bit and craned his neck to look at his brother while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the invisible hellhound whose breath was fogging up the outside of the glass. Sam nodded grimly and tucked Parker behind him. The thief made herself as small as possible by curling into a tight ball. A small object in her jean pocket painfully protruded into her hip bone.

Dean steadied his aim.

Parker fumbled with her pocket, trying to get the pointy thing without bumping into Sam. Her fingers pinched grooved metal and Parker stopped squirming, her mouth parted like an "o".

The hellhound growled again, deep and foreboding. It was the sound of thunder before a hurricane and the rumbling of an earthquake before the house collapsed on top of you. Then, as Dean turned purposefully towards the noise, it cut off sharply and was followed by a low whine. Sam got the impression that the hound had its head cocked to the side, listening.

The beast huffed loudly, blowing condensation onto the windshield, then _sat_. The Impala's hood groaned under the sudden stress and hollow thunking rhythmically filled the silence. Just when things couldn't get more weird, they did.

It barked.

Not "ominously howled" or "growled dangerously": the hound straight from the fiery pits of the Inferno _barked_.

Dean blinked, minutely lowering his arm in surprise. "What the Hell?" he said through clenched teeth. He twisted around only to find Sam as confused as he was.

"Is it," Sam paused, unable to believe what he was hearing, "_wagging _it's tail?"

"Why don't we ask the helldog whisperer?" Dean growled, training his gun the blonde head that peeked around his brother's shoulder. Parker let the silver whistle fall from her lips and raised her hands above her head in the universal sign for _don't shoot! _


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Another shortie, but trust me when I say it's jam-packed with stuff that needs to be said in Nate's narrative. In this chapter, we learn more about Nate's dream world. Um, warning for implied (stated) character death. I don't want to say anything else to give it away, so I'm putting out a general WARNING for this chapter, since it's a little (A LOT) darker compared to the others. Thanks to Alice of Scots, LyleRay, LeeMarieJack, CaraLee934, Murakami no Kitsune, and mysticaljayne for reviewing!

* * *

Nate took his son out for ice cream.

It was a funny world he found himself in that doing a simple thing like buying Sam a frozen dairy product could make him so happy. Sam, on the other hand, was dejected and sullen (his team had lost three out of four matches). The boy stabbed his sundae with his spoon as if beating up the dessert would make everything better.

"Chin up, kiddo," Nate said awkwardly, still finding his sea legs in fatherhood. "You did great. Even got a trophy, right?" Nate tapped the small trophy on the old-fashioned ice cream parlor's table.

"Yeah, a participation trophy," Sam mumbled, swirling the hot fudge into the ice cream. "I don't know why you gotta lie to me about it. I know we sucked."

"Alright," Nate had no idea preteens sulked this much. Was it normal, or was his son just cynical by nature? It certainly ran in the family. "Fair enough, I won't coddle you. If that's what you want."

Sam glanced uncertainly at him, wondering where his father was going with this. "You won't?"

Nate shook his head, smiling a bit. "No," he replied, "no, you're too smart for that anyway." He sipped his vanilla shake.

"Oh," said Sam, blinking in surprise at the compliment. "Okay. Thanks, Dad." This seemed to calm the boy, and he tucked into his sundae without taking out his anger on the innocent dessert. Nate looked at his son and around the ice cream parlor, and was content for the first time in a long time. Content with just sitting: no scheming or planning, or worrying about a con. Content was... well, it was a little boring, but having Sam back made up for it.

By the time they returned to their little house in the suburbs, it was dinner time and Maggie was on her way out. She kissed Nate's cheek and Sam's forehead, told them the food was in the oven, and that she had to go to IYS for a last minute consultation.

"I'm not even on call right now," she complained, after sending Sam to his room to change and clean up. "And I'll be there all night most likely." Maggie sighed and grabbed something from the cupboard above the sink. It was a large plastic bottle with vibrant lettering and graphics on the label. It triggered something in Nate's memory.

"Let me see that," he took the bottle from Maggie before she had the chance to take out any pills. "Fastlive?" He asked, half to himself. Distributed by Earnshaw Pharmaceuticals. That didn't bode well.

It couldn't be right, he'd beaten them before. He'd taken down Earnshaw before it could buy out the little company that had developed Fastlive. He'd driven _both_ companies into the ground.

Or rather the team had.

Nate dumped the contents of the bottle into the trash. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What the Hell, Nathan?" Maggie gasped. She slammed her purse on the table top and stood with arms akimbo, staring him down.

"Don't take those," he commanded. "They'll make you sick." _Or worse_, he added silently. Maggie frowned.

"I don't have time for this," she said, taking her purse from the table. "Do I even want an explanation?" She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned back to Nate, an unspoken question written across her expectant (and fearful) expression.

Nate had seen her look at him that way before; nine months after Sam's death, the day Maggie confronted him about his drinking. She filed for divorce soon after.

He shrugged noncommittally. "I read something about the pills. Online. Yeah," he said, nodding, and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, "there was a whole article about Fastlive causing heart attacks." It was close enough to the truth, but still a lie any conman with half a brain could have seen through it. Luckily for him, Maggie was disgustingly honest and, worst of all, believed _he _was honest too.

Maggie softened. "In that case," she said sheepishly, though a bit guardedly, "I guess I owe you a thank you." She blew him a kiss and left in a hurry, now several minutes late. Nate sagged against the counter the moment she was out of sight. He felt very old and very tired.

He pushed himself off out of his slouch and went into the next room where Sam was watching TV and munching on a bowl of homemade mac 'n' cheese. Nate smiled tightly at his son, sat down, and opened a laptop on the coffee table. He thought of all the terrible people the team had taken down. He thought of all the people they had helped.

Who protected them when four thieves and a functioning alcoholic didn't? Who was there when the Big Man put pressure on the Little Guy?

Who provided leverage?

He typed a few keywords into a search engine after a brief moment of contemplation. His search came up with results immediately.

"Flight I359 Crashes, No Survivors" one article proclaimed. It was a year old. Nate shook his head, skimming over it. GenoGrow had gotten away with spreading toxic fertilizer, and eighty people had to die just to hush up an accountant and a hit man. And that was just a high profile disaster they'd prevented. What about all the other bad guys who were _actually_ the bad guys?

Nate's eyes widened as he thought of the last con the team (minus Sophie) ran, the one they played in their own backyard. He dug his cell out of his pocket and fumbled with the buttons.

"Hello?" a young voice with a barely-there Boston accent answered.

"Cora?" Nate choked, earning him a suspicious look from Sam. God, he hoped the boy wasn't a tattletale. He didn't know how he would explain calling the daughter of his father's old drinking buddy. "This is Nathan Ford." A beat. "Jimmy's son."

"Oh," recognition lightened Cora McRory's tone, "wow, it's been forever! How's life treating you?"

Nate smiled despite his worry. "Fine, fine," he said. "I just called to ask about the old watering hole. I was thinking about taking the wife and kid back to Boston for a week." He winked at Sam and placed his forefinger to his lips. "You know, show my son where I grew up, and the pub was always like a second home to me. Is your family, ah, still running it?"

Cora was silent. "Sorry to tell you this, Nate," she sighed at last, "but my dad passed away recently and I don't own McRory's anymore." She sounded strained, like she might cry.

"I'm sorry, John was a good friend," Nate paused. "Cora, if you don't own the pub, who does?"

Bitterly: "A dirty rat."

"Does the rodent have a name?"

"Goes by the name of Doyle," Cora said disdainfully, making it very clear what she thought of the loan shark. "Mark Doyle." Nate felt himself go cold. He made small talk and gave his condolences to Cora for a few minutes more before saying good bye.

"Who was that?" Sam asked curiously, but didn't take his eyes off the TV

He sat frozen, staring blindly at the cartoon movie playing. He was weighing Sam's life against the lives of all the people he'd helped in the two years of leading Leverage Consulting and Associates-or rather the team of master thieves it disguised. It wasn't fair, he thought.

"Old friend of the family," Nate replied in a monotone.

He suddenly needed to know where his family- _team_, he corrected - was. He already knew where Sophie was: locked up in a woman's prison. And he could use his position at IYS to find the others. It was a matter of minutes before he had their files on his screen.

He looked up Parker first. She was still stealing (no surprise there) and was wanted in three more countries than she had been before she joined the team. She also was the main suspect in the theft of a priceless brooch that had belonged to the last czarina of Russia. At least she hadn't been caught.

Hardison had been recruited by the CIA and was given full indemnity from past crimes (much to the dismay of Interpol). Nate was both surprised and amused by that. The hacker never struck him as the clandestine service type. But then again, he'd always been too good, too honest, to be a thief anyway.

He paused before he opened Eliot folder. He saved the hitter for last, knowing the type of man Eliot Spencer had been before the team. He wondered what he would find. Would Eliot have settled down and disappeared? Or would he have just added to his body count? With a steadying breath, Nate opened the hitter's electronic file.

"Ah," he said sadly.

DECEASED was watermarked in red over the top of Eliot Spencer's file. Of all the fates he'd imagined for his friend, he'd been too afraid to list this as an option. It wasn't fair that all that was left of the hitter was a digital file and grave. Did he even get a grave? Nate forced himself to look at the cause of death. He read it, and then read it again. And then a third time for good measure.

Eliot _had_ added to his body count. But only by one.

Nate shut the laptop with trembling hands and leaned back into the couch cushions. Beside him, Sam laughed at something a talking yellow sponge on the television said.

His only wish in the world had come true, Nate observed, but at what price? What did he value more: his family or his son?

_Sam_, said the thin voice once more from the darkest, most selfish part of his mind. _Always Sam._

The rational part of him told Nate that his son was dead, that he was in a coma of some kind or drugged and this was all a dream. He would wake up and Sam would still be gone and buried, Maggie would still have divorced him, Sophie would still have left him. At least Hardison would still be a criminal and Eliot would still be busting heads. The thought offered him a small comfort that was overshadowed by Sophie's absence.

If he couldn't make things right with Sophie in reality, maybe he could in Dreamland.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Well, here it is. The Big Bang, the... other analogy I can't think up right now, but if I could, it would be _awesome_. I'm not sure what I think about this chapter, since it caused me a lot of stress over the tenth chapter, but it feels right. That's enough self-doubt for now. A huge, warm, thank you to Murakami no Kitsune, floralisette, LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, LyleRay, and CaraLee934 for the reviews. Seriously, all the support I'm getting is amazing, I can't thank everyone who's reading this enough. Onwards!

* * *

The thing that Parker hated most about having Dean's gun an inch from the patch of skin between her eyebrows, was not having her team talking to her in her ear. Her eyes crossed upwards as she tried to keep the weapon in sight; she imagined what they'd say, just to get a sense of some normalcy. Hardison would be saying _don't panic, girl_ all the while panicking himself. _Keep them talking_, Sophie would tell her. And Eliot would grunt, _I'm on my way. _Except he wasn't and she was going to die in the backseat of a '67 Impala at the hand of a real-life Ghostbuster.

Parker blinked back an annoying wetness from her eyes. This sucked.

"So how'd a pretty little thing like you get her hands on-" Dean looked incredulously at the little silver trinket, "on a whistle? Seriously?" he said to Sam. "A dog whistle is all it takes to get Rover to heel?" Sam shrugged.

"Since when does anything supernatural make sense?"

Dean considered it. "Good point." He pushed the barrel of the handgun against Parker's forehead. "Where'd you get it? Your boss?" Parker shook her head. "Demon holding your contract?"

"No!"

"Then where?" Dean hissed, emphasizing the last word by clicking off the safety. Sam nudged the gun off its mark and gave his brother a warning look.

"Dean," he interrupted the other man's protests, "she's human. Put the safety back on, you're scaring her."

Dean mumbled, "Good," but complied. He didn't, however, put away the gun. Parker eyed it warily. This Dean, with all his mood swings, was a looser cannon than she was, but she didn't think he'd shoot her (not fatally anyhow). And she would bet her best harness that Sam wouldn't let him rough her up. All of that considered, they _had _duct taped her.

"Where'd you find the whistle?" Sam asked, a little more kindly than his brother had. Parker fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I didn't find it," she conceded. Dean crowed triumphantly; his "I told you so" was cut short as Parker continued. "I stole it." Parker had to admit that the speechless expressions on the brothers' faces was worth revealing her real occupation.

"So you _are_ a thief?" Sam recovered first.

"Like a thief that steals stuff with serious mojo?" Dean pried, thinking of another woman who stole things that got her into trouble.

"I didn't know any of _this_-" she gestured to the invisible hellhound on the hood of the Impala, "existed until last night!"

"Just a thief then?" Sam asked once more. Parker's jaw clenched.

"Not _just _a thief," she retorted, miffed that the giant had essentially called her a common pickpocket for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Let me guess," Dean began drily, having gone through this before. "A _great_ one?"

"The best," she said without vanity.

Dean snorted. "No need to brag, sister. We get your point." He twisted back to face the threatening empty space outside the wind shield.

Realizing it was now up to him to continue the interrogation (if it could be called that), Sam scratched his brow and squinted at the thief. The _best _thief. Whatever.

"Alright," he sighed, "who'd you steal it from?"

"I don't know, some guy in suit."

"Well, why did you steal it?"

"He was mean."

Sam massaged the crease in his forehead; he could almost feel the stress ulcer that was probably forming. "Did he seem, I don't know, _demonic_ to you?"

Parker looked at him like he didn't know the difference between a Glen Reader and a Steranko. "Not unless you count his demonically bad manners," she retorted, giving her head a snarky shake.

"We got a problem," Dean said, saving Sam from having to continue the "interrogation". It didn't take long for Parker and Sam to hear said problem. The hellhound was growling again.

The weight leaped from the hood to the top of the car; the metal concaved below the beast's paws. The growling and snarling escalated as a grey van pulled up several car-lengths behind the Impala. Parker tried not to let her surprise or worry show in her expression, but she couldn't stop the blood draining from her cheeks. Pale, with lips pressed firmly in a line, Parker watched the indentations above her and heard the movements of the hellhound on the roof.

"Drive away," she heard Sam whisper. Whether it was directed towards Dean or the van, it was ignored by both.

"Stay in the car," Dean commanded the two in the backseat and gingerly got out of the car. Sam followed, of course, daring his brother to say anything about it. They stayed away from the tail end of the Impala, and kept a careful ear on the hellhound.

Parker tightly gripped the whistle in her palm. She was caught between joy that her team had found her and dread that they were in danger because of it. But the whistle had stopped the hound before, it would do it again. Probably. Maybe.

(Hopefully).

* * *

"Stay in the van," Eliot said. "I mean it," he looked pointedly at Sophie, "this doesn't feel right, stay back and let me handle it. You hear?"

Sophie held his gaze challengingly for a moment before dropping it with a resigned sigh. "Loud and clear."

"Aye aye, captain," Hardison agreed theatrically and mock saluted.

"Don't do that," Eliot said seriously. The hacker gulped, and it wasn't until the hitter cracked a grin that he realized Eliot was kidding.

"Hey," Sophie grabbed the hitter's arm before he could get out. Eliot pushed his brows together questioningly. "Bring her back safe, alright?"

"Always do," he winked and was gone. As Sophie watched the hitter cautiously approach the front of the rental van, she tried not think about why the exchange had felt like a good bye.

Eliot slammed the driver's side door shut and rounded the front of Not Lucille. He could see the back of Parker's head in the backseat of the vintage Chevrolet. She wasn't looking directly at him, but he knew she was watching. He wondered why she wouldn't put her earbud in.

He turned his attention to the two men on either side of the Chevy. Now that he could see them clearly, they looked more competent than they had in the warehouse. He shouldn't have underestimated them after they had referred to the... _other room_ in such a flippant way, but in all honesty he hadn't expected them to have the look of experienced fighters.

Not _trained_ fighters, per say, but Eliot could tell these men had seen their fair share of beatings. The "learn to fight by fighting" type of guys. So not military, but he could see traces of it in both of them, but mostly in the shorter one. If he had to guess, he'd say they were army brats.

He tried to place names to faces. If he remembered correctly, the tall one was "Sam" and the bow-legged one went by "Dean". But it had been dark in the warehouse, so he could have it backwards. Neither stepped closer to him, though Sam kept glancing at the top of the old car.

"Need any help, man?" Eliot asked, feigning concern. Dean watched his movements warily, weight on the balls of his feet like a boxer, clearly expecting a fight. The man's eyes flicked to the roof of the Chevy as well.

Curtly: "We're good, thanks."

"I insist," Eliot said, voice losing some of its good neighbor charm.

"Really, don't bother yourself, pal," Dean returned drily, barring his teeth in a humorless grin. Like a skull's. "The big guy just needed to take a leak."

Eliot paused, briefly meeting Parker's eyes. She looked pale, _worried_. "My mistake." Had they found her earbud is that what she was gesturing about? Wait. Eliot blinked. Parker was _gesturing_ at him.

_Go away_, she mouthed repeatedly, waving a hand desperately at him. The hitter frowned. The men were dangerous, and Parker thought he couldn't handle them. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight, uncertain whether or not he should leave her.

"You stand there any longer and I'm gonna have to start charging you," Dean's jibe derailed his train of thought. Eliot forced himself to relax.

"I was just leaving," he said, smiling benignly, harmlessly. Just as long as neither were armed, he could have her back in less than fifteen seconds, give or take. Chances weren't good; he noticed the tell-tale bulge of a handgun tucked in Dean's waistband. The smartest move was to get back into van and drive away.

Too bad he wasn't the run-away-with-his-tail-between-his-legs specialist.

He launched himself toward Parker at a speed that made his calculations slow by several seconds. Dean swore and drew the hand gun, but didn't point it at the juggernaut racing towards him. That should have tipped off Eliot immediately.

He was about half way to the tall one when a savage snarl erupted out of _empty air. _Something that felt like the business end of a semi-truck pounced on his chest and knocked him to the ground.

Distantly, he heard Parker scream his name, but couldn't answer for the heavy weight crushing his lungs. The pressure didn't last long, because invisible knives—or were they claws? – ripped through his chest. He cried out and swung wildly above him. He was surprised when his fists connected with muscle… and was that _fur_? Hot breath that stung his eyes huffed in his face as the _thing_ growled and dug its claws deeper into him. Eliot gasped, black spots dotting his vision. He bit down hard until he tasted copper to stop himself from shouting in pain. He heard a shot and the invisible creature yelped, raking its claws reactively into his torso.

Several shots went off, and now Eliot could see black blood oozing from the deceptively empty space above. He lashed out again, whipping elbows, fists, knees at the bleeding, impossible beast. Voices joined the sporadic gunshots, one rising above the rest.

"Help him!" Parker shouted desperately. Eliot couldn't see her, but there was movement in his peripheral vision. He heard someone swear and then the gunfire stopped. The creature snarled and dragged Eliot over the pavement. Another body (visible, thankfully) barreled into the creature, throwing it off Eliot and onto the shoulder of the road. Eliot clutched his shredded chest and rolled his head to get a good look at the idiot who saved him.

Dean wrestled uselessly with the creature; the only thing on his side was his momentum. In a matter of seconds, he was on his back, hands bracing up against what Eliot could only assume was the beast's neck. Parallel slices appeared over his biceps and sides, but the man kept the creature at arm's length. His muscles shook with the effort of it.

"Any day now, Sammy!" Dean said through clenched teeth. His tall companion hurriedly shut the trunk that had been opened when the hellhound attacked and tossed something to him.

"To your left!" Sam warned. Dean reached away just long enough to catch the knife, miscalculating the timing and grabbing it in the middle, half on the handle and half on the blade. Not missing a beat, he tightened his grip on the creature and swung the knife underhand in an arch. Black blood reeking of sulfur and decay poured from the deep gash and the creature whined, then went silent. Eliot heard a thud, and the slick sound of a blade exiting organs and flesh.

Eliot gritted his teeth and put pressure on the worst of the gashes. "What was that thing?"

"Hellhound," Dean grunted unsympathetically.

"Damn," Eliot replied and spat onto the pavement, saliva and blood mixing with black gore. He pushed himself to a seated position and took a closer look at – though he loathed to call him it – his savior.

Dean rolled the hellhound's dead weight into the ditch on the side of the road and wiped the black blood from Ruby's knife onto his jeans. Noticing the attention he was getting, he barred his teeth roguishly.

"See anything you like?" he winked at Parker. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, not noticing how Hardison frowned.

"Your knife is pretty," she said. Eliot laughed (only a little hysterically), though he regretted it when his injuries protested. Sophie was at his side in a heartbeat, fretting and worrying over him.

"How are you? Can you see me? Any black spots?" she fired off question after question, not really knowing what she was saying. "Get in the van, we're taking you to the hospital."

"No hospitals," Eliot said quickly. "Just get me back to the cat lady's house." He straightened, catching Dean's eye. He nodded once in acknowledgement. _Owe you one_, the gesture said. Eliot Spencer was not the type of man to fall down on his knees in gratitude, but a debt was a debt and only fools didn't pay their dues. Dean looked uncomfortable under the hitter's serious gaze.

Hardison stared at them like they had all started singing and dancing in unison. "Seriously? No one's going to talk about how Eliot was ripped to pieces by an invisible _dog_?!"

"Hellhound," Sam corrected. Parker let out a bark of nervous laughter, hoping Hardison wouldn't take it personally.

The hacker glared, eying the tall, muscular man who was standing too close to Parker (and yes, three feet was _far _too close). "Who asked you, Fabio?"

Sam hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets upon hearing the hacker's scalding tone. What was his deal anyway? _Sorry for saving your moron friend's sorry ass_, Sam bit his tongue before the sass escaped him. And there was something about the guy that gave him the strangest sense of déjà vu. Whatever the reason, Sam didn't like him.

"That's what I thought," Hardison snapped, crossing his arms. Parker looked between the two men and bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the sudden need to get away from the waves of dislike coming off of both. She noticed that while Eliot was fending off the mother hen that was Sophie Devereaux, Dean was leaning against the bumper of the Impala alone, threading a curved needle. Sharp things sounded fun, she decided. Better than glares and angsty arm-crossing, anyway. Hardison sagged when she left his side.

"Does it hurt?" Parker asked, poking his injured arm. Dean winced.

"Nope," he said, clenching his jaw. He took off his jacket and his navy flannel so he could roll up the sleeve of his undershirt. The man wore far too many layers.

"You're bleeding," she told him and jabbed his side where he was, in fact, bleeding. He inhaled sharply, counted to ten, and tried not to kill her. She poked him again, pressing her finger into his side and twisting it until she got his attention.

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," he quipped, squirming away from her prodding while trying to stitch up the souvenirs the hellhound left him with. He tied and bit off the unflavored floss he was using as thread and examined his work. Not the cleanest sewing he'd ever done, but he usually didn't have a sadistic blonde chick distracting him.

Hardison shouldered past the freakish giant-person (who was happily returning the hacker's stink-eye with one of his own) and trudged up to Parker. "We're leaving," he said without preamble.

"But—"

"Eliot's hurt, Sophie's going into shock, and I need to breathe into a paper bag," the hacker interrupted, raising an eyebrow at the pair's close proximity. He added this "Dean" to the (growing) list of People He Did Not Want Near Parker. "We are lea-_ving_," he emphasized the syllables of the last word.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. There was something about the man that rubbed him the wrong way, something familiar. It was on the tip of his tongue, but the harder he tried to place the feeling, the more it escaped him.

"Fine," she huffed. She took a few steps then paused. "Parker," she said simply, twisting to look over her shoulder. Dean blinked in response; the word meant nothing to him. Parker stalked away, heading towards the van. On the way, she bumped into Sam, mumbled an apology, and continued without stopping or looking at him. Hardison shook his head, watching her go. Dean misinterpreted the gesture and smirked.

"First hellhound's always the hardest," he said, more than a bit smugly. "But don't worry, it only gets worse." Hardison bit the inside of his cheek and walked towards Not Lucille until he was a safe distance away and Parker was in the van, then looked back.

"She stole your wallet," he replied triumphantly. Dean's eyes widened and he quickly patted his jeans' (empty) back pocket.

"Son of a bitch!"

Hardison cackled madly and dove into the rental. "Drive, drive, drive!" he shouted excitedly, relishing the sight of Dean kicking the Impala's back tire. Sophie stepped on the gas and did a U-ey at a speed you only see in action movies.

"How did you _not_ notice her hand in your back pocket?" Sam asked him after the van and their devious little thief were long gone. "Seems like something you of all people couldn't miss."

Dean rubbed his (still unshaven) cheeks, feeling incredibly violated. "Dude, she's a witch."

"She's a pickpocket, Dean," Sam said slowly, as if he were explaining it to a child. "There's nothing supernatural about it." His brother wasn't convinced.

"Yeah, well, we're getting it back." He pursed his lips thoughtfully, thinking about the other hinky feeling he got from the odd bunch. "Did the black guy look familiar to you?"

Sam nodded, frowning a bit. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I feel like I've seen him before. Cleveland, maybe?" He rubbed the crease in his forehead as if it would jog his memory.

"No, that's not it. It'll come to me," he assured and bit off a hang nail, "Just wait." Dean threaded another needle to stitch up his sides. When he finished, the brothers drove towards town. Maybe stop and get a bite to eat, talk to some locals, figure out where Stevie and Co. were shacked up.

"Did she get yours?" the elder Winchester asked suddenly. Sam checked, holding up his wallet for Dean to see.

"Looks like it was just you," he grinned. "Maybe she isn't the best—" Sam froze, lips parted mid-sentence.

"What's up, doc?" Dean gave his brother an odd look.

Sam patted his waistband, then frantically rifled through his pockets. "It's-it's Dad's journal. I kept it on me so she wouldn't be alone with it, and…"

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean groaned, hitting his forehead against the steering wheel.

"It's gone," Sam let out a resigned sigh. "She stole the journal."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I didn't get to reply to every review, so here's a shout out to anyone who got the brunt of my complete inability to function as a human being. Also, thanks to LeeMarieJack, SocerersScone, CaraLee934, I'd-Rather-Be-A-Winchester, LyleRay, floralisette, and Murakami no Kitsune for reviewing and to the lovely people who've started following, favoriting, and/or casually reading! Okay, here's the chapter that took me the longest to write. When I think of this chapter, I get really frustrated because I rewrote it five times. The sad thing is that I'm not exaggerating. Ugh, it makes me unhappy just thinking about it. But this is the finished product, so let's hope it's all good. Here ya go, ya filthy animals.

* * *

When Hardison said, "We are lea-_ving_," what he really meant was, "We're going to tail these freakshows in the rental van." Parker would have been disappointed by anything less. Which is what brought the team to where they were now, parked just out of sight of Sal's D'er in the empty lot behind the motel.

"So," Hardison broke the silence. "Hellhounds. That's new, right?" He watched the tracking device he'd placed on the Winchesters' vehicle blip away, unmoving in Sal's lot.

The team sat quietly in the van, isolated by their thoughts and experiences. Each was dealing with their first foray into the realm of the supernatural in different ways. Sophie sat in the front seat like a statue, cupping a thermos of tea that had gone cold some time ago. Hardison was talking to his tablet, which was odd, but not entirely out of character. Parker could be found in the back near Eliot but not talking to him. In fact, she wasn't talking to anyone. When asked what had happened after the warehouse, she had thrown a key ring at them and told them "to ask her husband".

And Eliot… Eliot wrapped up his shredded torso and downed half a flask of cheap whiskey Parker had lifted from God-knows-who, but to be fair, he had just been attacked by a mythical creature.

It had been a rough day.

"Yes," Sophie cleared her throat and lifted her eyes from the murky liquid in her thermos. "Very new."

"Unexpected," Hardison continued.

"Impossible."

"Incredible!" the hacker countered, unable to keep down his excitement. "Do you have any idea what this means? Magic. Real magic!" he said, eyes sparkling like a kid waking up on Christmas to find Santa hog-tied under his tree. Sophie bit her lip and cast a sympathetic gaze towards the hitter sitting behind her.

"Hardison, I don't think now…" Eliot pushed back his chair and stormed out of Not Lucille as best as he could with the gauze around his torso. Sophie weakly finished, "Is a good time for that." She furrowed her brow at the hacker. "Now look what you've done."

"What'd I say?" Hardison said, tapping away utterly clueless. "Did I say something?" He sounded as if _he _was the offended party in this scenario.

"Fix this," Sophie commanded, snapping her fingers to get his attention. Parker unfolded herself from the fetal position and somersaulted out in the same direction Eliot had taken.

She found him leaning one shoulder against the side of the old motel; arms crossed, closed off to discussion, watching the exterior of Sal's with a frown firmly in place. His body language told her to "Buzz off" and his expression told her "Now", but the thief crept up until she stood directly behind him.

"Why are you glaring at cars, Eliot?" she asked. Eliot started, kicking himself for letting her sneak up on him.

"I'm not," he said as she moved into his line of sight. Parker turned so her back was resting flat against the wall and watched Eliot carefully.

"It'd be okay if you were."

Eliot smiled a little at that. "I know."

"So," Parker pouted dramatically, reaching out to grab his face and moving his mouth in time with her words. "Why so sad, Mr. Grumpy Face?" He whacked her hands away and shook his head.

"Something's wrong with you," he grumbled under his breath. "I'm not sad, Parker," the hitter continued gruffly, pushing away fingers that were now trying to prod his bandages. When did the thief get so touchy-feely? "I'm just… thinking."

Parker wriggled uncomfortably. She was never good with situations like this: the kind that called for Sophie's expertise. Parker was better with locks than with people, though she had been told that the two were more similar than she thought. But Parker didn't see how. People were complicated, with their feelings and desires and needs. Locks were easy. Simple. And they didn't talk back.

She awkwardly patted Eliot on the shoulder in a way she hoped came off as sympathetic.

"You want to know what my dad said when I was afraid of the monster in my closest?" Eliot said, half to get her to stop, half to get what was weighing him down off his chest.

"You had a monster in your closest?" Parker said, impressed and a little jealous.

"No, Parker, I didn't have—" Eliot cut himself off. "No. Remember how I told you I used to be scared of the dark? It's like that, there wasn't anything to be afraid of, but I was still scared until I did something about it. Got it?" Parker nodded (still a little confused as to where the monster came into play).

"Good," he continued, "anyway, I was about seven, maybe eight, when I told him to check for the monster in my closest. He said he wouldn't and when I asked why, he said 'Eli'—that's what he'd call me – 'Eli, the only monsters in this world are the people in it. You don't have to be scared of the thing in your closest or under your bed because there's a very real human being out there who's ten times scarier than anything your imagination thinks up.'" Eliot let a long pause hang between them, not caring if Parker up and left. He almost hoped she would. When she didn't, he summoned up his courage and went on.

"And I believed him. After everything I've seen and everything I've done, I know exactly what he meant. I've seen monsters, men and women in my line of work," he took a breath, not meeting Parker's invasive stare. "Myself, before Dubenich hired us and this whole crazy thing started. But _real_ monsters, Parker?" Eliot shook his head. "Hellhounds?" He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but couldn't find the words to describe the helplessness he was feeling.

Parker remembered how she'd thought Eliot would just punch something if he found out about the monsters. She could have handled that, but this was an entirely different man; she had no idea how to deal with him. She twitched nervously beside the hitter. Her mouth went dry and she felt like she was going to hurl.

"Eliot," she said, stalling for time. She knew she should say something to help, but what? An idea came to her. She bolted away, as the hitter had hoped she would.

Now that she had fled, Eliot felt relieved. He was glad it was Parker who found him and not Sophie, if only because he could rely on the thief's rusty (read: nonexistent) communication skills to keep her from trying to comfort him. Parker was a marvelous listener in that way, even with her short attention span. Imagine his surprise when the blonde tore back from the van with a leather-bound book in her hands.

"Here," Parker said and thrust the journal in his face.

"What is this?"

"I forgot I did it. It was an accident."

"What?"

"Lifted it from the guys," she replied vaguely, but Eliot knew exactly who she was talking about. "It says a lot of stuff. It might… help. Or something." The phrasing was clumsy, but the heart was all there. Eliot took the journal and mumbled a "thanks." Parker just shrugged in response and took back her spot next to him. She stared at lazy Sunday drivers, letting him read in his own time the nearly illegible scrawl that filled the journal's pages.

Eliot held the book in his hands, uncertain what to do with it, exactly. Obviously Parker thought it was important enough to steal from people who could kill hellhounds, but then again, she had thought stealing the cotton candy machine from a carnival had been important too.

"I guess I should probably do something with this too," Parker sighed, pulling Dean's wallet from her waistband. Unaware of Eliot watching her with confused eyes, she rifled through the wallet, snorted at the paltry number of crumpled bills in it, but stuffed them into her pocket. After all, money was money was money. She then wound back her arm to toss the wallet away.

"Hey!" Eliot caught her wrist before she released the leather wallet. "What do you think you're doing?"

She blinked at him, at the wallet in her hand, then back at him. "There's nothing in it but fakes." _And the_ money, _Eliot_, she wanted to say, _what else is there?_ The hitter snatched the wallet from her and stalked off towards the rental.

"Damn it, Parker," he growled, demonstrating that all vulnerability he had revealed was locked up tight, buried cement, and tossed into a river. "Next time you lift the wallet of the guy we're tailing, give it Hardison. Understand?"

Parker mimicked his scowl. "'Next time you lift a wallet, Parker,'" she mocked in a parody of Eliot's voice. "Nyah, steal your own wallets." She stomped back to the rest of her crew.

"Here," Eliot said, opening Hardison's door and tossing the wallet in his lap. "Work your magic, Iceman."

The hacker narrowed his eyes. _You're dead to me_, the expression said. Nevertheless, he flipped open the leather and groaned in agony at the prime example of amateur forgery. "This is terrible. Really, bruh, why would you show me these? It's like- like seeing a three-year-old's interpretation of the Mona Lisa. Adorable, but terrible. Just awful. I mean, this should be illegal—well, it is, I guess, but still—"

"Hardison," Eliot smacked a finger down on a fake driver's license made out to one James Hendrix. "Picture. Search. Now."

"Right," the hacker stopped his spiel and cracked his knuckles. "Let's do this thing."

* * *

"We've checked out every run-down warehouse and abandoned building within a fifteen mile radius of the town and still nothing."

Dean raised an eyebrow over his heart attack in a sesame seed bun. "Shut up and eat your rabbit food, man." Sam rolled his eyes and pushed his veggie omelette around his plate. Dean waited for his brother to take a bite before releasing him from a stern stare. Sam did that sometimes, the thinking aloud thing. It was annoying as Hell, though Dean couldn't complain with the results. But there was a time and a place. Sal's D'er during brunch was neither.

"We're missing something," Sam said for the fifth time. He paged through a musty history book of the town that looked so old, it probably came over on the _Mayflower_. It belonged nowhere near an eating establishment. "There has to be…" Dean reached over and slammed the cover shut. His brother gaped at him.

Dean tore a bite out of his burger. "Eat," he commanded around the mouthful.

"I'm not hungry."

The elder Winchester swallowed. "Your growling stomach says otherwise. Look, Sam, we've been hunting this bastard for two weeks. A five minute pit stop isn't going to kill you."

"Dean, this isn't a joke—"

"Am I laughing?" he asked, brow creased.

Sam made an exasperated noise. "Every minute we waste is lessening the chances we find anyone alive. Come on, Dean, you're always telling me that saving people is what we do. Well, _this_—" he gestured to the diner, "doesn't look a whole lot like saving anyone."

"Christ, man, who pissed in your cornflakes?" Dean held his arms over his head in mock surrender. "You know, you've been bitching at me since the blonde chick stole Dad's journal. Just calm down, Sundance, we'll get it back."

Sam's lips thinned and he stabbed at his food. "This isn't about the journal."

"Then what the Hell is your deal, Sammy?"

"Hiya, fellas," Shelly the waitress stopped by their booth on her way to the kitchen."How's the food?"

"It's great, thanks, Sheila," Dean answered distractedly.

"Shelly," the waitress sounded hurt. "You guys have been coming here so often over the past couple weeks, we're starting to think of you as regulars. Thinking about staying in town?" She got over her wounded feelings and bounced back to welcoming hostess. Sam started to answer negatively, but Dean cut him off.

"Why?" he smiled, laying on the charm. "Know any places for sale?" Shelly thought for a moment.

"I know old Marge Weaver's place has been empty for a while. Not sure what the family's going to do with it," she shrugged. "But it's like I said when you boys were asking about the old motel, empty places don't stay empty for long in this town." Shelly beamed. "Guess we're just blessed like that. Want any dessert today? Pie's fresh out of the oven."

Dean looked sorely tempted, but it was Sam's turn to interrupt. "Not today," he answered swiftly.

"Okie dokie," Shelly tapped her pen against her notepad. "Give me a holler when you're ready for the bill. See you around, boys." Dean sighed forlornly, watching her sashay away. He finished the last bites of his burger and played with his fork, all the while eying Sam's leftovers.

Sam pushed away his cold omelette and set up his laptop. "Okay, so from what I've gathered, the Djinn has been feeding off of locals for years. Decades, even."

"So what, we're not looking at old enough ruins? We've been round this before," Dean caved and scrapped eggs and vegetables onto his plate. "I mean, that warehouse had been abandoned for over twenty years." He glared pensively out the window. "How long do you think Stevie was in the backseat?"

"Focus, Dean. We need to think bigger. Older," Sam continued, typing into the search engine, "more permanent. Got it," he grinned, turning the laptop screen towards his brother. "Limestone quarries. I don't know how I never thought of it before."

Dean looked impressed. "That would have been good to know two weeks ago," he said, skimming the information Sam had pulled out God-knows-how. "It fits, right location for a little genie snag and snack." He scarfed down Sam's leftovers. "What do you say we gank us a genie and steal us a thief?"

"We aren't kidnapping Stevie again, Dean," Sam replied with an astonished look on his face. "Why do I even need to tell you that?"

"Glad we're on the same page," Dean said, ignoring him.. "Hurry up, we need to pick up an order of lamb's blood."

Sam dug into his pocket and emptied it, taking out several odds-and-ends as well as a wad of cash. He counted out enough bills to cover the meal and tip.

"Whoa, Sammy," said his brother, picking up a small pouch from the pile he'd placed on the table, "you working hoodoo without telling me?"

"What?"

"The mojo bag?" Dean asked, shaking the dark cloth pouch knowingly. "It's pretty advanced rootwork. Didn't think you were into that kind of thing."

Sam frowned. "I'm not. Are you sure it isn't a hex bag?" Dean raised an eyebrow at him.

"Dude, don't you think I'd know witchcraft when I see it? Look," he sighed, realizing he was going to have to spell it out for his _genius _brother. "See this?" He pointed to the opening of the pouch. It was stitched shut. "This is hoodoo. The stitches seal in the mojo, right? The zig-zags look sloppy, but this pattern helps with protection charms. Witches aren't thorough like rootworkers. They just tie their bags off and plant 'em. They don't give two shits if the hex doesn't last long, they just need it the once anyway."

"How do you know all this?" Sam questioned suspiciously. His uncertainty was understandable, considering how much Dean hated witchcraft. And research.

Dean looked insulted. "Hey, I know things too, Sammy. You don't hold the monopoly in that department." Sam gave him a look."Okay," the elder Winchester admitted, "I had a fling with this girl in Alabama whose granny knew a thing or two."

"Why am I not surprised," Sam said drily.

"But the question is," Dean squinted at the mojo bag, "who do the hoodoo?"

* * *

"Uh, guys?" Hardison said, an odd hitch in his voice. "We've got a problem." His tablet blipped. "Make that _problems_. Plural."

The team crowded around him to see what they were dealing with.

"This," Hardison turned his tablet towards the other three so they could see the mug shot, "is Dean Winchester. He's dead. _Thrice. _This guy is honest to God, reported by the F-B-flipping-I, dead to the power of three. Wanted from everything to grave desecration to cold-blooded murder." Hardison tapped on another page showing a different face. "And this is little Samuel. Emphasis on _little_. Also dead, apparently. Wanted as an accessory to most of his big brother's crimes. Aiding and abetting a known criminal. That kind of thing."

Sophie whistled. "Their parents must be so proud." Hardison let out a bark of laughter.

"Ha! Dear ol' Daddy Winchester's rap sheet is twice the size of both brothers' put together. Their mom died in 1983 in a freak home fire. Guess they got it from his side, then."

"Hmm."

Parker looked bored. "Duh, Hardison. Of course, they're criminals; they kill monsters that hunt people. They're the good guys. Like us."

"Parker, these guys are dangerous," Hardison warned. "Right?" He looked around desperately for support.

"Can't say I'm in any position to judge a man on the length of his file," Eliot said with a small shrug. "God knows I've done worse things than dig up a few dead people."

Sophie pursed her lips. "I have to agree with Hardison on this one, we don't know anything about these Winchesters."

"Thank you, Sophie," Hardison said, making a show of his gratitude. "It's good to know at least one of you hasn't joined Team Evil Wonder Twins."

"Who are the Wonder Twins?" Parker whispered to Sophie. The grifter shrugged.

"Batman and Robin, I think?" she replied uncertainly.

"And you want to know the worst bit?" Hardison powered through the interruptions. "_They're on the move_."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I love all of the response from you guys (y'all?)! Hearing people's theories or what they thought was funny or sad… or cruel on my part, it's just amazing. Now, before I start this chapter, there are a few things I want to say first. When I began writing this fic, I said to myself, "Self, there are three things you need to have: a hunt, a hellhound, and a con." Well, you've seen the hunt, got a taste of the hellhound, and so here's the con (okay, here's part _one _of the con). Finally, and appropriately located in our mastermind's story. And of course, much love to LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, Murakami no Kitsune, floralisette, CaraLee934, and thosepreciouswalls for reviewing. The wait between updates will be a little longer this week and the next, just because of my schedule, but fear not, I will never keep you waiting for too long!

Enough, I've spent too long in this note already. Voila!

* * *

Nate tapped his foot anxiously against grey linoleum. He peered through the glass, arching his neck to get a better view of what was happening on the other side. A door buzzed in warning, and a guard escorted the greatest grifter in the world had ever seen to the opposite side of Nate's booth.

Sophie Devereaux looked tired. Raw. Here she was, laid vulnerable without her make up or expensive clothes or cons to shield her. It was pure Sophie. And she was _beautiful_. Nate picked up the phone on his end and waited for her to do the same.

"Sophie," he said, tapping the glass with his knuckles. "Pick up the phone." She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, giving a minute shake of the head. "I just want to talk. Please?" Nate asked the last word softly, locking his gaze on her stubborn face. _Please._

Sophie dramatically rolled her eyes and picked up the linked phone. "I don't want to talk to you."

"All I'm asking you is to listen. Can you do that?" Nate didn't wait for her to answer before pressing on. "I'm sorry."

"Oh," Sophie said lightly. "You're sorry. Well, that makes everything better, doesn't it?" Her knuckles turned white around the phone. "I'm in _prison_, Nate! _Sorry_, but not even you can sweet talk your way out of this one."

"I know," Nate nodded, "no, I know. I get it. This is my fault. You don't belong in here, Soph. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, we're done here," she went to hang up, clicking her fingers to get the attention of the guard.

"Hold on! Wait, Sophie, I want to make it up to you," Nate spilled in a rush, hoping she would give him a chance. She looked away and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath through her nose and released it through her mouth. She picked up the phone again. "Thank you," Nate said immediately.

"Let me make myself very clear, Nathan Ford," Sophie replied coldly, "and I'll be sure to use small words so you understand. I am not going to forgive you. There is nothing you can say or do that will 'make it up to me'. After I walk through that door," she pointed to where she had entered, "you are dead to me."

"Of course," Nate agreed. "But if I'm dead, it'll be a little difficult for me to get you out of here. Not impossible, mind you, but it would take some rethinking on my part."

Nothing changed in Sophie's expression except for a tiny narrowing of her eyes. "I'm listening."

"You can be made at me, you can call me dead, but let me do this," Nate lowered his voice. "Help me help you break out of prison."

"You know they record these, right?"

The mastermind shrugged. "I pulled a favor."

"That doesn't sound very honest, Mr. White Knight," Sophie said coyly, sounding more and more like her usual self.

"Who said anything about honesty, Ms. Devereaux?" Nate grinned. "Anyone can make a dramatic entrance, but who can say they stole an exit? Are you in?"

"You had me at 'break out of prison,'" she leaned towards the glass conspiratorially. "So what are you thinking? The Sleeping Beauty? Forty Thieves and a Snake? The Count de Monte Cristo?" Nate shook his head in response to each idea.

"No," he cut in, "it has to be the I Dream of Jeannie."

"Are you kidding me?" Sophie laughed disdainfully. "The Jeannie? That awkward, antiquated, royal-pain-in-the-arse _scam_? Nate, you use that on housewives going through a midlife crisis and old tycoons on their death beds, not a _women's correctional facility_. No, we're doing the Sleeping Beauty."

"Don't get me wrong," Nate conceded, "you'd make a lovely Beauty, but it has to be the Jeannie. It'll work, trust me."

"Nate," she hissed sharply, "my court hearing is in three days. I Dream of Jeannie takes three _weeks_ just to set the hook correctly. We don't have the time. Understand? In three days, I could be sent to a prison with even higher security. And the chances of that happening are very high. Interpol is negotiating for my custody. Interpol, Nate, _Interpol_!"

"So we do it in three days," he said as if Interpol were as intimidating as a baby penguin in a tutu. "It's just a bottle job. Yeah, the Jeannie in a Bottle." He looked pleased with himself.

Sophie scoffed. "I bet you think you're clever. Well, here's something to rain on your parade. Bottle jobs only work when you have a full crew of the best of the best. We," she gestured between the two of them, "are not even half a crew. And only one of us—" she pointed specifically to herself, "is good enough to be considered the best of anything."

"Don't put yourself down like that, you're very good at what you do too," Nate retorted in good humor. "Just trust me, Sophie. The Jeannie's the way to go."

"Nate, you can't run a long game with only two people. It's unheard of—no, it isn't possible!"

"You count for at least two others, Sophie."

"No, it can't be done, Nate. It's insane," she insisted, growing increasingly worried about the insurance investigator's mental health, "especially without a proper mastermind. No, count me out."

"You'd rather stay in jail?" Nate raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"No, I'd rather stay alive. Thank you all the same," she said with finality, "but I won't be a part of a kamikaze con."

"Sophie, who was behind your arrest?"

"You," she responded drily. "Thanks for the reminder, by the way."

"Think again.

"Who, James Sterling?" she tried not to laugh. "He couldn't investigate his way out of a paper bag."

"And what does Sterling want more than anything in the world?"

"A growth spurt?"

Nate smiled despite himself. "No, what does he wish for, Sophie? What does he wish for that you can give him?"

Sophie wrinkled her nose at the possibilities. "Enough games, Nate, our time is almost up." She glanced nervously at the guard.

"The Second David."

The grifter blanched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do," Nate chided. "That's why the Jeannie will work in three days: Sterling's already on the hook. All we need to do is string him along a bit. Are you in?"

Her lips tightened as she thought about it. Finally, she sighed. "What the Hell, I've got nothing to lose but my life and freedom. Just one question. How's the Jeannie—bottle or not—going to get me out of prison?"

That was all he needed to hear. "This is what we're going to do…"

Exactly twenty hours later, Nathan Ford found himself back at the women's prison. This time, he was dressed in a baby blue polyester suit, a canary yellow button-up dress shirt, and a mustard-colored tie. He slicked back his hair and all in all, looked absolutely ridiculous and astonishingly unprofessional. Before he entered the facility, he dialed Sterling.

"Yeah, uh, it's Nate. Look, Sophie Devereaux's looking to make a deal."

"What? No, listen, Nate, we can't let her do that. We've worked too hard catching her, we're not letting any lawyer ruin that," Sterling responded, sounding like he had just woken up.

Nate hummed in agreement. "Oh, definitely. No, she's not going anywhere, but you see, she's offering up some of her 'souvenirs.' You know, her real big scores. She's got everyone from IYS to the CIA talking." Sterling was silent for a long time.

"What scores exactly, did she say?" he asked slowly. Nate smiled. He had him now.

"She didn't. Well, not in so many words. She mentioned something about Venezuela, maybe Italy? Yeah, something about Italy."

"The Vatican?" Sterling suggested.

Nate snapped his fingers to sell the part. "The Vatican! Yes, that was it. Anyway, I'm down at the prison now. I'm going to try to talk her out of it."

"No!" Nate couldn't stop himself from grinning at the desperation in Sterling's voice. "No, we should hear what the little minx has got up her sleeve. I'll be there in forty minutes, just keep her talking."

"Sure, Jim, if you think it's a good idea," Nate said. "See you then." He ended the call, satisfied that Sterling was on his way. He entered the prison, his walking pattern changing the minute he walked through the doors. He smiled harmlessly at the guard at the front desk.

"Hi, Jimmy Papadokalis, attorney," Nate upped his Boston accent to the point where it passed irritating and was well on its way to becoming nerve-grating. "I'm here to speak to my client. Ms. Sophie Devereaux? Who do I see about that, huh?" He popped a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed obnoxiously. The guard looked at him with polite disgust and called up his superiors. There was a short conversation in hushed tones before the guard hung up. Nate tapped the front desk impatiently.

Finally, he was cleared to enter the visiting area. Once again, he sat down in front of the glass barrier that separated him from the dangerous criminal that was Sophie. They talked about the weather and the atrocious prison food, Nate's only slightly more appealing suit, everything and anything but the Second David.

"Think that'll do it?" Nate asked her as their time ran up.

"It better," she replied. "Give my love to David." Sophie made sure several witnesses heard her. With that, the two compatriots parted ways. Nate high-tailed it out of the prison, knowing Sterling was going to be there any minute.

And he was, looking deceptively disheveled and bleary, though Nate knew he was alert as always. He watched from his car as Sterling entered the prison. Nate let out a relieved sigh. From word of mouth, their stocky nemesis would hear that Sophie Devereaux had a meeting with one Jimmy Papadokalis (a sleazy lawyer-type) and that she mentioned someone named David. Sterling would fill in the rest. Nate turned the key in the ignition and prepared to back out of the lot. Now, to sell the part, he just had to call certain authorities that would be very interested in some of Sophie's spoils. Nate glanced in his review mirror and slammed on the brakes.

A gaunt, filthy boy about seventeen years old appeared to be sitting in his back seat. Nate jerked around, but found it to be empty. He squinted at the mirror again, but found it to be equally boy-free. He shivered.

He didn't relax until he pulled into his own drive-way. Sam was sitting (still in his pajamas) in the middle of the living room surrounded by National Geographic magazines when Nate walked through the front door. Maggie, sitting on the couch with her legs tucked up close, looked up from her book with a tired smile.

"You look funny," his son informed him. Nate got the feeling he wasn't just talking about the clothes.

"Stressful day," Nate explained. It wasn't even a lie.

Sam picked up a pair of scissors and cut out the picture of a blue Poison Dart frog. "Catch any bad guys?"

He barked out a laugh. "Not yet." _Not exactly._ He was still quaking when he went upstairs to get into less ridiculous clothing. Nate, changed into his normal attire, headed for the bathroom, wanting nothing more than a hot, relaxing shower. He pushed back the shower curtain.

Two high school kids hung from their wrists in his shower. He recognized one from his mirror. Nate stumbled backwards, a cry catching in his throat. He couldn't tear his gaze from their dirty, blood-crusted skin and hollow cheeks. Their faces were bone-white, eyes blank and dead, lips an unhealthy blue color. He blinked and they were gone.

His knees gave way and he sank to the floor. A shower was completely out of the question now. Nate didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the space where their still bodies had been. His mind couldn't catch up; too much had happened in the past several days. Who were they? It was if he was being haunted. He thought again of the boys' vacant eyes.

What was happening to him?


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Alright, sorry for the wait. But here it is! Not going to lie, I wrote this while I was very ill so that's my excuse if there are any weird mistakes or continuity errors. WARNING for canon-type violence in this chapter. As always, thanks to floralisette, Alice of Scots, LeeMarieJack, Murakami no Kitsune, Rorke's Drift, SorcerersScone, CaraLee934, and BranchSuper for the awesome feedback! Onwards.

* * *

"I spy with my little eye, something green."

"Is it money?"

Hardison slapped a hand to his forehead. "Parker," he stressed, "girl, for the last time, it has to be something visible. And no."

"Is it the grass?"

Sophie glanced through the windshield at the grey sidewalk and grey road and grey building and the lone tree that could be seen from the rental. The only grass in sight was a sickly yellow color.

"No."

"Is it Dean's eyes?"

Hardison gritted his teeth at that one. "It's the tree! It's the only mother lovin' tree on the whole street!" He gestured wildly out the windshield.

Eliot looked up from re-wrapping his chest. "Keep it down, Hardison, it's called covert surveillance for a reason." He tugged his shirt back on, masking his grimaces.

The hitter kept one eye on the small butcher shop the Winchesters had disappeared into. The more he learned about the FBI's most-wanted living dead the foggier their story became. One minute they were killing women and children, and the next ten witnesses were swearing to Yahweh that two tall strangers with sawn-off shotguns saved their hides. It was confusing to say the least.

The journal Parker had swiped raised more questions than it answered. For one, half of it was written in some kind of weird short-hand code. Eliot vaguely recognized some words, but it was like trying to communicate with someone when you only knew how to say "thank you" and "where's the bathroom" in their language and they only knew "dumbass" in yours._ Naturally,_ Parker understood everything. How she managed to get in the mindset of a paranoid ex-marine with a mind like a crossword puzzle, Eliot would never know, but she had translated ten coded pages in the time it took him to get through the first sentence.

The other half was partially made up of small blurbs of valuable information, but mostly loads of useless observations like one entry (written in red _crayon_ of all things) that said, "If a werewolf sheds, it ain't a werewolf." Some entries were more mundane than appropriate for a monster hunter's journal. "Buy salt; pick up Sammy; call Jim." That was it, all there was; the single phrase wedged between a motel bill and a post card from Lawrence, Kansas. The sections that _were _written in any recognizable language were terrifyingly thorough. Also, just plain terrifying. Eliot couldn't believe people actually chose the hunting lifestyle, but at the same time… his job wasn't a cakewalk either. At least the Winchesters could say they knew they things they killed were evil. Eliot wouldn't say he could do the same.

Movement in the front window of the shop caught his attention. The taller one exited with a plastic bag in hand. Dean followed shortly after, features animated like he was talking about something of great importance.

"Here we go," Hardison said, noticing the brothers at the same time Eliot did. "Freaky giant monster slayers are a-go."

"Oh," Sophie remarked thoughtfully, head tilted to the side as she watched the Winchesters.

"What?" Hardison asked, blindly groping for his bottle of Orange Squeeze—he was down to his last one, it was time to ration.

"It's nothing," Sophie said lightly. "I just hadn't realized how pretty they are."

Eliot couldn't help but throw in his own dig. "I think they're taller than you too, Hardison."

"Y'all need therapy," Hardison replied grumpily. He shot a glance at Parker, who was watching the hunters with a calculating eye.

"They know where Nate is," she said confidently.

"Okay," Hardison shook his shoulders and cracked his neck like he was getting ready for a boxing match, "here's the plan: we follow them and get Nate out without having to look at their ugly mugs ever again."

"Or we could just walk up and say 'Hello boys, our friend was kidnapped by a monster, we hear you have some experience with that,'" the comment, surprisingly, came from Sophie. The age-old argument "To trust or not to trust" began anew.

Meanwhile, outside of the van something canine—but entirely undog-like—sniffed the front tire. It knew nothing of the first of its kind to respond to the whistle, though the smell of the other's blood was all over the van. The beast raised its invisible head and huffed. It whined.

Its master was here, it would not leave her side. But it had just picked up the scent of a condemned soul whose contract was three months short of due and the demons stalking towards the men who smelled of heaven and hell were so _distracting_.

The hellhound sat heavily on its rump. It would stay. It would wait. It would obey its master's call.

* * *

"That guy ripped us off," Sam said disgustedly, crumpling the receipt in his fist as he pushed through the butcher shop's door. "It doesn't cost twenty-five dollars for half a pint of lamb's blood."

"Don't care, Sam," Dean rubbed his palms together, eager to get started. "Let's dust this son of a bitch and get the hell out of Dodge. I hear Vegas has a huge witchcraft coven-gambling-ring-thing going on," he said.

"You hate witches," Sam reminded him slowly, wondering where he was going with his suggestions. They paused outside of the shop.

"Yeah, but _Vegas_," Dean said with reverence. "A weekend full of crazy drunks, casinos, wild nights, hung-over mornings, Elvis impersonators—"

"Witches…"

"_Showgirls_," Dean continued wistfully, happy smile on his face as he day-dreamed of the… _opportunities_ Las Vegas offered. "What's not to love?"

"I don't know, it'll be hard to enjoy myself with this gum stuck to my shoe."

Like a flip of a light switch, Dean's expression darkened. To anyone else, Sam's comment wouldn't particularly stand out, but to the Winchester family that phrase meant shit was about to hit the fan. It meant they were being followed.

"What, Steve's party van?" the elder Winchester laughed derisively, shaking away his momentary dread. "Forgive me if I'm not cowering in my boots."

"I was talking about the two locals who've been tailing us since the diner."

"Ah," Dean said, letting his eyes fall behind him at the lurking "pedestrians" behind them. "That would be my second guess." His head tilted meaningfully towards the alley next to the meat market. "Anyway you were saying about your wife?"

Sam snorted and continued down the sidewalk as if he hadn't noticed the gesture. "My wife, right. Who is she, anyway? She a professional kleptomaniac and her friend reacted like a hellhound attack was just another day at the office. I mean, that's weird, right? Not our kind of weird but…"

"Weird," Dean finished, nodding his head. "Yeah, they rub me the wrong way too. Thick as thieves and just as trustworthy, if you ask me."

"This whole case is messed up," Sam said. He couldn't hold his tongue any longer, demon stalkers be damned. "It isn't right."

"You're tellin' me."

"No," Sam shook his head, trying to clear his head and explain properly. "I mean, this isn't normal Djinn behavior. They don't move around, but we've found at least three different nests in the area. It doesn't make sense."

"Multiple Djinn?"

"Not likely."

Dean accepted the information faster than his brother, not bothering to question _why _when he could be asking _where_. "Okay, so this thing isn't like other genies. It likes a change of scenery every now and then. The bodies in the warehouse weren't fresh kills, but they weren't _old _either so let's just say that was where it shacked up last before the quarry."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Right, but what I don't understand is why bother? The locals aren't exactly what I'd call sharp so why—"

Without warning they turned down the alley and disappeared from view. The two demons, wearing the local insurance agent and a hairstylist named Heidi, shared a confused look, then power-walked the rest of the distance. They cautiously approached the alleyway, eyes turning black. It was empty.

"Where'd they go?" the one wearing the hairstylist's meatsuit growled in a lispy soprano.

They edged further into the alley, peering into the lengthening shadows. Two pairs of hands grabbed the backs of the demons' shirts and threw them back against the side of the butcher's. The demons grinned at their attackers.

Dean switched his grip on Ruby's knife and didn't wait for the demons to make the first move. He launched himself at the possessed insurance salesman. He dodged the demon's first punch, but the second landed square on his jaw. His head rolled with the demon's fist and he glimpsed Sammy getting his ass handed to him by a five foot one bottle blonde. He grunted, throwing his arms around the demon's torso, and tackled him against the wall. His knee jerked sharply upwards between the demon's legs. Dean allowed himself a smug grin when the demon squeaked in pain (voice noticeably higher) —even demons didn't like getting hit in the stones. He swiftly drove the knife into the demon's jugular. A yellow light momentarily flickered from within the insurance salesman and the body slumped against the wall. Both demon and host had left the building.

Sam found himself on the defensive as the hairstylist-wearing demon swung a rotten two-by-four at his head. He stumbled backwards, ducking as the splintery board just missed him. The demon laughed and feinted left, only to swing right. Sam jumped back and the two-by-four skimmed his chest. He caught Dean's eye and clenched his jaw indignantly, knowing how he must have looked. The two-by-four hit him in the temple. Before he could blink away the pain, he found himself back to the cement with a demon straddling his waist. He looked up into the face of the sneering face of the hairstylist.

"I've heard about you," she said with a feminine giggle. "Can't say I'm impressed." Sam easily rolled them over until the demon's face was pressed into the grimy pavement and her arms were pinned behind her back.

"Took you long enough," Dean jibed, wiping Ruby's knife on his jeans. "Losing your touch a bit there, huh, Sammy?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't see yours come after you with a two-by-four," Sam grumbled, twisting the demon's arms harder than necessary. She hissed and arched her neck to glare up at the brothers.

"Get bent," she spat. Dean crouched down in front of her and innocently checked the edge of Ruby's knife.

"Hell-o, hell-bitch, " he said cheerily, tapping her cheek with the flat of the blade. "Today is just not your day, is it?" The demon was silent and Dean sobered. "Okay, so this is how this is going to go down: you're going to tell us who sent you and I'll kill you quickly. Promise. But if you don't…" Sam watched his brother's face twist into a grotesque smile and suppressed a shudder. Things had changed since Hell. "If you don't, I'll bless a river and drown you in it. Honestly, I'm hoping you'll choose option two."

The demon snarled. "If you're trying to scare me don't bother, my boss could dance circles around you."

"Lilith?" Sam questioned.

The demon laughed contemptuously. "Try the King of the Crossroads. And he wants his whistle back."

"Bully for him," Dean retorted. "We didn't steal nothing from any duke."

"_King._"

"Whatever."

Sam coughed, drawing the attention back to the issue at hand. He looked pointedly at Dean. "Stevie," was all he said. Dean groaned and let his head fall into his hands.

"I swear to God," he muttered. "You don't think she had anything to do with this, do you?"

"It makes sense," Sam said, shrugging. "I mean, the hellhound didn't attack her. Or us, but I think the whistle might've had something to do with that."

"She? She who?" the demon asked eagerly, tensing under Sam's hands.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sammy? Any time you wanna…"

Sam gave him a blank look. "Oh," he blinked. "Right. _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus  
omnis satanica potestas, omnis—"_ Dark smoke poured out of the hairstylist's mouth as he recited the exorcism verbatim. The woman gasped and her eyes rolled back in a faint. Sam released her arms and stood, dusting himself off. "I thought—I mean, it seemed like…"

"What, that I was going to gank her?" Dean asked. "Seriously, Sam? You believed that?"

"You were pretty convincing."

_Click._

Their heads turned toward open end of the alley. A third stranger stood with a gun in hand. He tilted his trucker cap up enough for the brothers to see his black eyes.

"Ya know," he drawled, "most of my kind don't like these things, but they're just so damn efficient." He pointed the handgun at Sam and Dean braced himself to push his brother out of the way. The demon opened his mouth to gloat, but was cut short by a fist to his solar plexus. The redneck-wearing demon hunched foreword, betrayed by his meatsuit's human weakness.

Eliot's elbow collided with the surprised creature, his head thrown back with the force of the hitter's blows. Eliot grabbed the wrist of the demon's gun hand and twisted it sharply. The redneck hissed as a knee smashed into his chest again and again and again until he dropped to the ground. Eliot drew back a fist and hit the demon once on the temple, knocking him out cold. The hitter flicked his hair out of his face and with a final _click_ the ammo slide from the handgun and clattered to the pavement.

It had taken him all of three seconds to take down the possessed man.

Eliot let out a breath. "Not a friend of yours, I hope?" The Winchesters stared dumbly at the hitter in awed silence. Sam's jaw dropped.

"Whoa," Dean breathed, then abruptly shook himself and cleared his throat. "I mean, not bad. For a civilian." He sniffed. "I've seen worse." He stood up straighter, suddenly aware of how much taller he was than the super solider—ah, he meant amateur—oh fuck it, that was _awesome._

"Just so we're clear," Eliot interjected, pointing to the crumpled body of the insurance salesman, "that was the bad guy right?" Sam and Dean shared a looked.

"Well…"

Parker poked her head around the corner, saving the brothers from the awkward situation of explaining the meatsuit situation.

"Oh," she said quietly, eyes darting from the dead man to the woman on the ground to Trucker Cap's unconscious form. "That's not good."

"You said it, sister," Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish shrug. _God damn it._ How were they going to talk their way out of this one?

"Parker," Eliot growled. "I told you to stay in the van."

"Yep," Parker said and stepped further into the alley. "You probably should have known bette—" Hands wrapped around her neck and the – not as unconscious as previously thought—demon dragged her into the street.

"One move," he hissed, breath tickling the thief's ear, "and I'll snap the bitch's neck."

Eliot froze, shoulders tensing. Parker schooled her expression to a cold mask, but her eyes widened and desperately locked onto the hitter's.

This _thing_, Eliot exhaled slowly, had his hands on Parker, threatened her, and called her _bitch_. He'd killed for less. He slowly followed them out of the alley; the demons hands tightened around Parker's throat. Dean's lips parted to tell the hitter to stand down when the demon let out a startled yelp.

"No," he released Parker and backed _towards_ the hunters. This was the opposite of normal. "No, stop!" The plea wasn't directed to the humans.

Something out of sight growled.

Parker scrambled down the sidewalk away from the noise and the demon, dragging Eliot with her. "I haven't touched the whistle since that once in the car!" she said, wringing her hands and looking back and forth between the Winchesters. Dean, without taking his eyes off of the cowering demon, pressed his forefinger to his lips.

The demon collapsed with a scream as if something very _large_ and very _angry_ had just pounced on him. That very large and very angry something raked its claws into Trucker Cap and bit down on his leg. The demon cried out, reaching for the hunters—or possibly the Heidi-wearing demon—as he was dragged down the street by the hellhound. Parker flinched and turned her head away, eyes squeezed shut.

The van drove up and hid the sight from view, but it couldn't do anything about the screaming. A pale faced Sophie slide open the back door. "Get in," she commanded monotonously. Eliot nudged Parker towards the van, but she pushed him back, looking expectantly at the Winchesters.

"Look, Stevie, or Parker, or whoever you are," Dean waved his hands like he could ward off Parker's puppy dog eyes (which were giving Sam a run for his money, that's for sure). "We don't do the whole team thing. So uh, thanks but no thanks."

"And ditch the whistle," Sam added. "There's always more where they came from."

Behind them, the butcher shop's door swung open and several townies gaped at the bloody, torn up body in the middle of the street, still being mauled by the hellhound. One of them, a tall, elderly African American woman stared at them. Dean ducked his head and cursed under his breath.

"Sam," he warned, "we gotta get out of here."

Sam's brow creased. "That's what we're—" he caught sight of Mrs. Franklin. "Uh oh."

"What _uh oh_?" Parker asked warily. Sam cleared his throat and flickered his gaze to the landlady. "Oh, that _uh oh_." The thief grabbed each Winchester by the hand, pulling them towards the van. "Now you have to come," she said. "Let's find Nate."

"Nate?" Sam questioned uneasily as Dean groaned, "God, not _another_ one."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Apologies for the obnoxiously long wait, but this chapter's finally ready to see the light of day. Or the light bulbs of night, whichever applies. Make note: this is another Nate chapter in which I dump a lot of information (it could be seen as a filler chapter, but I promise this stuff all leads to something) into roughly 2,000 words. Apologies in advance for any confusing or wordy passages. Also, from what I have outlined, this story should total about seventeen chapters. Probably. Many thanks and all the love in the universe to floralisette, LeeMarieJack, CaraLee934, LyleRay, BranchSuper, Alice of Scots, mysticaljayne, Looneyloops, Murakami no Kitsune, I'd-Rather-Be-A-Winchester, SocerersScone, windswept lane (Glad it tickled your fancy!), Crystal (unfortunately, Cas will not be appearing in _this _story -is that a hint? I don't know, maybe- and as for Crowley... let's just say I have plans...), Guest (You're really too kind, but I accept your flattery with humble gratitude!), and stellaru. Side note: Sterling makes a bad life decision in this chapter. Don't drink and drive and all that... okay, PSA over. Onwards.

* * *

Nate was itching for a drink. No, that wasn't quite right. At this point, he would have sold his mother's kidney for one. His own kidney, Maggie's kidney, his crew's kidneys—all of them to a sketchy organ surgeon in a dark alley just for one lousy shot of crappy, bottom-shelf whiskey.

He paced through the house—basement to roof, bottom to top—trying to distract himself from the inescapable_ need_ tearing him apart from the inside out. It was dark, the middle of the night or very early in the morning. Nate didn't care; either way he didn't turn on any lights. No need to wake his family.

He couldn't sleep. But more importantly, he couldn't _drink_.

He shuffled into the kitchen and started opening cabinets at random. There had to be something, _anything_, at least mildly inebriating in this house. He threw open a cabinet and paused, looking thoughtfully at the vanilla extract. Desperate times…

Slamming the cupboard door, Nate turned away in disgust. He wouldn't stoop so low. He slid into a chair and rested his forehead on the kitchen table. Had it been three days already? Four? He couldn't be sure, it felt like one day went into the next so smoothly there was no telling the difference. What had he been doing before he woke up in a scene straight from Before?

There was a foggy memory of scoping out the headquarters of a couple that was buying out farmers in the heartland. That had been in… Kansas. But there was more; something had happened. He'd gone to –where was is?—Nebraska. He thumped the palm of his hand against the table. If only he could remember. Maybe he wouldn't be haunted by teenagers' limp bodies if he figured out how he got _here_.

The tremors in his hands were enough to tell him his next pick-me-up was _long past due_. But there was an AA one-year sober chip on the nightstand and a dozen people watching his every move. Nate highly doubted Maggie would allow even a drop of booze into the house.

Except… Nate slowly raised his head as a thought dawned on him. In two seconds, the only sign of him ever being in the kitchen was an upturned chair on the floor.

Would it be easier to drive to a bar? Yes. Was he going to do that? Absolutely not. As he remembered, the pubs in the area were tasteless, noisy boxes that were always too full or too empty and always cut him off after "he'd had too much."

Seven splinters and one perilous journey to the basement later, Nate found himself sitting on the edge of the front porch with a tumbler in his left hand and the bottle of fifty-year-old Irish whiskey he'd stored away when they first bought the house in his right. It had been a wedding gift from his father all those years ago—ironically, it was Jimmy who'd suggested that he hide it in case Maggie ever dumped the liquor cabinet down the sink.

He took his first sip, followed quickly by his second and third. _God, it had been too long. _

He'd been sitting for some time, long enough for his second glass to turn into his third, when a pair of headlights slowed to a stop in front of his house. At first Nate thought it was a cop, coming to arrest him for public intoxication or something equally ridiculous, but the familiar silhouette walking across the lawn was no police officer.

"Hello, Nate."

He topped off his glass before answering. "Sterling. Bit late for you to drop by, isn't it?"

Sterling snorted and sat next to him on the porch. "Bit late for happy hour, isn't it?" he quipped. "Whatever happened to 'Never again' and 'Sam needs me sober?'"

"Sam needs a father, not a saint."

"Fair enough," Sterling said, craning his neck to look at the pale stars dimmed by city lights on the horizon.

Nate squinted at the dark shadows obscuring most of his face. He couldn't begin to wonder what the man wanted at this hour. The Jeannie in a Bottle was going smoothly—or at least smoothly according to Sophie—so he couldn't be here about that. Nate wasn't happy about leaving Sophie to convince Sterling she would give him the David in return for a lighter prison sentence in a minimum security prison, but there was only so much a two-man crew could do when their faces were so recognizable.

"Want a drink?" he offered, breaking the suspiciously easy silence between them. He couldn't have Sterling going around thinking he actually _enjoyed _his company, now could he?

"_God_, yes," was the immediate reply.

Nate handed him the tumbler and took a swig of the whiskey directly from the bottle. Sterling swirled the liquid in the glass, gave it an experimental sniff, then carefully sipped it. His eyebrows shot towards his receding hairline. "This is good," he sounded surprised.

"Why are you here, Jim?"

Sterling frowned and downed the rest of the whiskey in one go. "I was kicked out."

"Of prison?" Nate laughed. "Overstayed your welcome?"

"More like a man in a suit told me to leave or my visa would be revoked."

Nate froze. That wasn't—that shouldn't have happened. "You're kidding?" he tested. "Can they do that?"

Sterling snorted. "They can do whatever they bleeding want, they're the CIA."

Oh, that wasn't good. In fact, that was at the top of the list of Things That Could Go Very Wrong. Nate mentally smacked himself for being so cocky; he should never have called—but it didn't matter anymore. It was too late to change the past. He'd just have to adapt like he always did. He cleared his throat. _Okay, time for plan E_.

"And this guy's negotiating with her? She's a con artist, I thought that was, ah, beneath the CIA to mingle with the, you know, riffraff," he pressed for more information. Not too hard, of course; they still had a game to play on him.

Sterling refilled the tumbler. "All I know is as long as the U.S. government's involved, IYS isn't going to see the Second David for a very, _very _long time."

"You mean, _you're _never going to see it."

"Naturally."

Nate paused. "Tell you what, I'll see what I can do. I have a few contacts in the Agency who may be able to throw some weight on our side." That was a lie. Sterling shook his head and told him he could do what he wanted, but it wouldn't amount to much. Between the two of them, they finished Jimmy's wedding present just as weak rays of light peaked over the western horizon. Sterling, only a tad bit tipsy, bid him farewell and drove off into the sunrise.

Nate stashed the empty bottle under the porch and weaved into the living room, making a beeline for the sofa. Hopefully he could get in an hour of rest before he had to deal with this new roadblock. The Jeannie was geared entirely for Sterling, how could he involve a new player?

Even as the sky grew lighter, the shadows around him seemed to grow darker. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a pale figure hanging in the corner, but when he turned to face it fully, there was nothing there. He shook his head. It was paranoia, that's all. Well, paranoia and whiskey.

He fell into the cushions of the couch, shutting his eyes tight to block out the weak morning sun. He felt a dull burn in his wrists and shifted uncomfortably. His limbs were heavy, his breathing shallow.

* * *

_Nate let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes. _

_The room was so dark he could barely see across the room, but he could just make out two limp bodies hanging from the low ceiling by their wrists. He rolled his head along his shoulder until he stared up at his own bound hands. It should have bothered him that he didn't feel anything in them._

_His dry tongue ran over his lips as he tried to wiggle his fingers. After a minute of concentration, his pinky finger twitched. A small smile twitched the corners of his mouth upwards, breaking the skin of his chapped lips. _

_His neck itched. _

_He flicked his eyes to the bag of blood on the IV stand next to him. A small tube ran from the full bag towards him. That couldn't be his _own_ blood, could it? Nate had a sick feeling that it was. What kind of sick bastard drained people of their blood? That was disgusting. And unsanitary. _

_A soft cooing noise distracted him from his rambling thoughts. He tried to move his head again, but the energy seemed to drain from him. He shifted his eyes towards the corner where the boys were suspended. A vaguely female shape moved between them. _

_He watched in horror as a hand haloed in blue flames inched towards the boys' own blood bags. He must have gasped because the pale creature turned sharply and _looked_ at him. No sooner had the creature moved, that Nate's vision was blocked by a face. _

_At least, he assumed it was a face beneath all those tattoos… And were his eyes glowing blue? The tattooed man – again, Nate could only guess—gently traced Nate's cheeks and jawline. _

"_Shhh," the tattooed man hushed. "Sleep." Nate felt his body relax under the stranger's touch. It was better than whiskey, better than painkillers. He leaned into the touch, craving its sedating effect. It was an addiction he hadn't realized he'd had, but made him want more. He couldn't feel the fiery burn in his raw wrists, or the ache in his head, or the itch in his neck where the needle entered his vein. He was numb, seeing nothing and hearing one last command. "Sleep."_

_And then he was gone._

* * *

He jerked awake and found himself face to face with Maggie's accusing glare. He pinched himself, digging his nails into his arm, just to see if he felt it. His nails left little crescents on his arm and a sharp sting that confused him more than it assured him. He'd been so sure that_ this_ was the dream, but the glowing eyes didn't exactly shout "reality", now did they.

"Morning," he said cautiously.

Her eyes narrowed. "That's it?"

"_Good_ morning?"

She tossed the empty bottle of Jimmy's whiskey onto his chest, angry tears in her eyes. "You _promised_," she spat.

Nate stared at the bottle. "Ah." _Right. _"You found that." He didn't try to deny it, not with the alcohol still on his breath.

"How long?" she sighed. The anger vanished as she asked the question, replaced by resignation. She sank into the soft chair next to the sofa.

Nate stared at her. Now that right there, that didn't sound like Maggie. Maggie would have thrown a fit, kicked him out, and forced him into therapy, made him sleep on the, well, the couch — not sit there like she'd given up hope. Maggie had _fought _for him, right up to the very end. It was Nate who had given up. Not her, never Maggie.

He didn't say any of that. "Three days."

"Nathan," she said, then bit her lip and looked away. As if she couldn't even look at him. It was a long time before she could begin again. "I don't—"

Nate phone chirped at him, interrupting whatever Maggie was about to say. "I need to…" he trailed off awkwardly.

"Answer that," she finished. "I know."

He listened carefully to what the person calling him had to say, nodding even though the gesture couldn't be seen, then hung up. He coughed. "I'm sorry," he said. Maggie looked to the floor.

"You need to go." It wasn't a question. If Nate hadn't known better, he would have said it was a command.

"Ah, yeah," Nate said. "I need to go."

"Okay," Maggie nodded. "Nothing keeping you here." She stood and walked out of the living room without another word.

Nate tried not to think about it as he straightened his gaudy tie and walked into the private visiting area he'd been escorted to. He was starting to know the prison better than his own home, and not only because he'd studied the blueprints. Sophie looked up from the table, cuffs around her wrists and guilty expression on her face. That wasn't a good sign. His thoughts were jumbled and confused, but everything stopped when he saw the tall man folding several sheets of paper into his laptop case.

"Hardison?"


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Welp, I'm back! And here's the next (minimally edited due to it being super late) chapter! Thanks to everyone reading this and extra special love to Murakami no Kitsune, LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots (Lovely Alice, yes, it's all very mysterious!), floralisette (You beautiful, wonderful soul, I'm so glad you haven't tired of my excessive love for cliffhangers), BranchSuper, CaraLee934, and Betsy Taylor (Hello, and thank you for being amazing!). Once again, all of your comments are so appreciated and cherished, so thank you! Anyway. Onwards.

* * *

In Eliot's experience, any man who carried a gun was a) paid to, b) forced to, or c) liked to, but always dangerous. And people wondered why he didn't like guns.

"Hey, cowboy, how 'bout you keep your eyes to yourself, huh? I don't swing that way."

Eliot narrowed his eyes. The Winchesters, frustratingly, refused to neatly fit any of those categories (though the last one was looking more and more suiting). There was Sam (obnoxiously tall, vocabulary like an English-to-Latin thesaurus), who looked like he could pick up the van over his head and fling it the entire length of at least two football fields. And then there was Dean, the trigger-happy pretty-boy suffering from an acute case of machoism.

Dean smirked and relaxed into his seat like he was perfectly comfortable being in a small, enclosed space (though the way his gaze clocked all possible exits every few minutes told Eliot otherwise). The van's once roomy interior was now cramped and stifling with three grown men—admittedly, two just a little more grown than the third—and one thief; even Eliot was dying to get out. The hitter snorted derisively and looked away. But it was like he said, they were _always _dangerous.

"Stev—er, Parker," came Sam's strained voice from the back. "Let go."

"Let go of my whistle first!"

"It's not—ow, Goddamn it, give it—"

"Watch it, Sasquatch!"

"Parker, what are you—Hey!"

Eliot raised an eyebrow and turned to the back of the van where Parker had seated herself next to the goliath. They were involved in what looked like some kind of wrestling match over the silver dog whistle which Parker had clenched in her fist and was waving wildly about. Her other hand clawed into Sam's hair and was _pulling _on it_. _Eliot raised a sympathetic hand to his own scalp with a wince. Sam reached a long arm over Parker's head and tried to pry her fingers open.

"Sa-a-am," Dean sang lazily, "you're _doing_ it wrong."

"Does everything you say have to be an innuendo?" his brother said through clenched teeth, hissing at a cruel twist from Parker's hand. Dean shrugged.

"You're the kinky bastard getting his hair pulled by a Barbie doll, Sam, not me."

"Bite me."

Parker took it as an invitation and clamped her teeth on Sam's forearm.

"Gah! What the hell?" the hunter exclaimed incredulously. Just when he thought this hunt couldn't get worse, he winds up wrestling a violent nutcase over a stolen magic hellhound whistle. But wasn't that just typical?

Hardison gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and kept his eyes on the road, and was definitely _not _sneaking glances in the rearview mirror. Sophie peeked over her shoulder to see what all the excitement was about. It was… not what she'd expected.

Parker squirmed under all six feet and four inches of Sam Winchester while snapping her teeth at him. He avoided her jaws as best he could as he reached for the whistle. Together, they managed to look not unlike a WWA match, but more similar to a pretzel wearing flannel.

"Well?" she said to the hitter after getting over the shock. "Do something!"

Eliot cleared his throat. "Parker, remember the jujutsu I've been showing you?"

The thief smiled and Sam braced himself. She lithely twisted herself from under him, rolling and arching through bendy positions until she somehow—it involved a well-aimed kick to a sensitive area—had the giant's neck in the crook of her elbow. Sam gasped and tugged at the noose-like grip around his throat, which only made the thief squeeze harder.

"Looks like she's got you by the short and curlies, Sam," Dean grinned, enjoying himself far more that he should have. "Someone hasn't been eating their Wheaties."

"Shut. _Up_." wheezed Sam.

"Parker," Sophie called from the front seat, "don't overwhelm the poor man." She glanced discretely at Hardison's set jaw and cleared her throat. "Maybe we should pull over," she suggested, "and figure out our next step?"

"There is no 'we', lady," Dean snapped, looking away from the woman—a content smile on her face—strangling his brother. "And there sure as hell isn't a 'next step'. What's going to happen, is you're going to pack your bags, get into your Mystery Machine and haul ass while my brother and I do our jobs. Capiche?"

Parker frowned stubbornly, watching Sam's face turn red. "But Nate—"

"If he's still alive, and I'm not promising he is," Dean interrupted, "then we'll get him out."

"Of course he's still alive," Parker scoffed. "He's Nate."

"Whatever floats your life raft, sweetheart."

"Okay," Sam gasped, "You can let go now. I won't try to take it from you."

"Promise?"

Sam nodded. Parker thought about it for a minute.

"Fine," she sighed and reluctantly released him. Sam pulled away, immediately putting distance between himself and the crazy thief who'd just had him—_him!_—in an honest-to-God, windpipe-crushing headlock.

"I'm never letting you live this one down," Dean grinned, "Barbie just kicked your ass, man."

He covered up a cough and ignored his brother. "You're insane. And strong. I don't remember you being strong." He shook his head in confusion. She hadn't been a match for him before, what changed?

Parker smiled, looking touched, reached out towards him. "Aw," she cooed. "That's so sweet." She ran her fingers through his hair. "Can I keep him?"

The van swerved sharply into a parking lot, throwing Dean and Eliot (who had been sitting on the floor) against the inside wall. Eliot sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his injuries open up again.

"Damn it, Hardison!" he glared up at the hacker. "You call that driving?"

But Hardison had bigger fish to fry. He got out of the van and slammed his door, leaving the rest of them exchanging confused looks. The side door slid open and there stood Hardison: arms crossed, brow furrowed, lips thinned. Behind him, Sal's run-down sign clashed with the watercolor sunset in the background, but cheerily declared, "Best in Service, Best in Town."

"_Dude_," Dean groaned, rubbing the spot where his forehead had collided with the door. "Cool it with the Evel Knievel act, will—" he was cut short as a hand grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the van.

Dean pulled himself upright and stared the hacker down with a small smile on his lips. Hardison hesitated, breathing deeply.

"Well?" Dean asked, not bothering to hide his eagerness. "Are you gonna hit me or just keep standing there looking pretty?"

"Hey," Eliot growled and stepped between them, "nobody's hitting anybody. Stand down." Dean hesitated, waiting to see if Hardison would obey. The hacker pushed Eliot aside and pointed a finger in Dean's face.

"First of all, we aren't _amateurs_. I've seen this girl—"he pointed to Parker, "crack a safe in less time than it takes to tie your shoes. If Sophie wanted, she could get you to hand over your wallet with a smile on your face. And Eliot could mop the floor with _you_ and then wax it with Chewbacca here without breaking a sweat," Eliot nodded, shrugging modestly. "Second, we don't need your help to save Nate so get out of my van and get out of our way."

"Okay, sparky, whatever you say." To say he was underwhelmed would be an understatement. He'd known enough conmen in his life. It was always the same tricks, no matter how young the dog, and these so-called experts were no different. "No loss on our end. We're not baby sitters, it's not our job to help some wannabe A-Team get their Hannibal back."

Parker wrapped her arms around her torso and turned wide eyes on him. "Trade you?"

"Come again?" Dean asked as Hardison threw his hands to the sky with a "_Hell_ no!"

"The stuff I took in exchange for…" she looked to Sophie for help.

"Services rendered?" the grifter supplied with a shrug.

"Seriously?" Hardison groaned. "Eliot, brother, come on. This is a bad idea, you know it is."

Eliot crossed his arms and stared at the Winchesters, then back at his team. That Nate-shaped hole in space had been empty too long. "I dunno," he said. "Whatever it takes, right? He'd do it for us."

"Throw in the Hell whistle and you got yourself a deal," Dean haggled. Parker frowned, then glanced at Eliot. As much as she wanted a pet hellhound, she didn't think it would be fair to the hitter after his first run-in with the creatures. She sighed, shoulders drooping.

"Deal," she spat on her palm and held it out. Dean blinked at the outstretched hand and wrinkled his nose. With a grumble, Sam spat on his own palm and shook the thief's hand.

Hardison's nostrils flared and he closed his eyes as if he couldn't even look at the sight. "You know what? I—I'm going for a walk," he announced, turning his back on them and heading for the diner. "Y'all figure it out." Parker wiped her hand on her jeans, eyes following him until he went inside.

"I'll go after him," Sophie said softly, noticing the thief's expression. "Carry on."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. This was all wrong. "So where's this… genie?" It felt weird saying it aloud. He might as well have asked where he could find a blue guy with a goatee and a voice like Robin Williams.

Dean smirked and shared a knowing look with his brother. "Glad you asked, cowboy. How do you feel about caves?"

* * *

Hardison stormed into the diner like he had a personal vendetta against the world. Who did they think they were, anyway, that they thought they could just waltz in and play the heroes?

"Heroes, as if," he muttered to himself, slumping onto a stool at the bar counter. "More like freakishly tall douchenozzles who—who wear too much flannel and… smell like... manly men."

A white cup slid into view, filled to the brim with steaming coffee. That waitress from earlier—what was her name?—leaned onto the counter. Hardison tried to nonchalantly glance at her name tag. Sheila? Cynthia?

"Shelly," she said, pointing to the pin. "Sorry, you looked a little down."

"Who me?" Hardison forced out a laugh. "Nah, girl. Is this coffee for me?"

Shelly shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "Well, you ran out so fast, I didn't get a chance to ask your name."

Hardison ran through the list of IDs he had on him. "The name's Smith," he decided. "Matthew Smith." _Heh._

"Okay, Matt, why so glum?" she leaned her elbows onto the counter and gave him a searching look. "You alright?"

"It's nothing."

Shelly raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't press the subject. "If you say so. Where's your pals?" She laid her hand over his, eyes wide and concerned. He jumped a bit, staring at her hand like he couldn't figure out what it was doing there.

"Just—" he jumped again. Had she just rubbed herself all over shag carpeting? "Outside. In the parking lot." Shelly craned her neck to look through the windows.

"Oh yeah," she said. "They're with those two weirdoes who've been hanging around here for the last couple weeks. I think they're spelunkers or something. Boy, did they take a wrong turn!"

"Spelunkers? Why would you say that?"

Shelly bit the end of her pen thoughtfully. "Well, they kept on going on about the old quarries. Said they found 'It', whatever 'It' is."

Hardison looked down at the coffee mug, a smile growing as a plan came together in his head. "Shelly, could you tell where the exact quarries they were talking about are?"

"I can do you one better," she replied, untying her apron. "I can show you."

The waitress led him through the staff entrance in the back and into the empty parking lot behind the motel. "My car's back here," she explained.

"Right," Hardison glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Not Lucille parked in front of Sal's. "Maybe we should get—"

"No," Shelly interrupted sharply. "I mean, this'll be fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah," she said quickly, grabbing his arm. "You know, when you show them you can find him without their help."

That stopped him in his tracks. "Say that again?" Shelly tugged him a couple steps towards the motel, growing more insistent.

"Come on, Matt. Man up."

"You said 'find him.'"

Now it was Shelly's turn to freeze. "What? No, I didn't." She stubbornly placed her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

"Yes, you did," Hardison started to back away, arms stretched out with palms facing the waitress. "You know what, I'm just going to head back inside and finish that coffee. Can't waste good coffee, am I right?" He laughed awkwardly.

Shelly smiled tightly. "Right."

* * *

"And when you utilize the elbows—show 'im, Parker—you gain an advantage in close hand-to-hand combat," Eliot finished, slowly demonstrating an example of the technique on Dean. "Quick and dirty, gets the job done fast, no flowery showmanship."

"Huh, just the way I like it," Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes, distracted long enough for Parker to knock the wind from his lungs with an elbow to his sternum.

"Nice one," Eliot commented, covering his laughter with a cough. "But watch that left arm next time. Don't leave it so limp; protect that side." Parker nodded solemnly and Eliot knew he wouldn't have to tell her twice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie come out of the diner and scan the parking lot as if she was looking for something—or someone. The grifter shook her head and hurriedly made her way back to the van. She was trying to keep a calm mask over her emotions, but there was a tightness about her frown and around her eyes that betrayed her distress.

"Did he come back out?" she asked, mouth a hard line.

"Did who do what?"

Sophie bit her lip. "It's Hardison. I can't find him."


	15. Chapter 15 (Part I)

A/N: Okay, so I lied. Kinda. This is actually probably going to be _eighteen _or possibly _nin_e_teen_ chapters. I wasn't going to post this until I had finished the second part of it, but then I ended up deleting half of the second part and I felt bad about not updating in a while so that's the story of why you're getting a short(ish) that cuts off at terrible spot. Thank you to everyone who's favorited or followed and much love to LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, floralisette, mysticaljayne, Murakami no Kitsune, Kyla (Why thank you very much, I'm glad you liked the update!), BranchSuper, SPN Mum, and ShadowHatcher for reviewing! Now, the long awaited Chapter Fifteen (Part I).

* * *

It was Hardison. Hardison was sitting right there, so close that Nate could have reached over and flicked his forehead. He didn't, of course. That would be highly unprofessional behavior for a twice-suspended lawyer from Reno with an inexplicably Bostonian accent.

Sophie sharply nudged his ribs with her elbow. "Nate," she muttered through the uneasy smile plastered across her features. "You're staring."

"Ah." So he was. He cleared his throat, buying for time. "CIA? Hmm. Well, Agent—"

"Call me Alec," Hardison—er, _Alec_ interrupted. "Everyone does."

Nate couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "Alright, H—_Alec_. What exactly—"

Alec cut in again. "Does the CIA want with Ms. Devereaux? Other than her witty charm and good-looks?" the hacker-turned-honest government employee gave them a toothy grin. Then immediately sobered. "Well, since your client just signed a confession to forty-three crimes—and that's just in the US of A— we got all we need."

"You signed _what_?" Nate turned to Sophie, who shrugged; she looked as bewildered as he was.

"He was just so smiley," she supplied anxiously. "It was getting under my skin."

"Getting under your—Let me see that confession," Nate demanded, making "gimme" gestures. Alec wordlessly took out the paper Nate had seen him tuck away, and smoothed out the creases before handing it to the other man. Nate snatched it from him, and squinted at the tiny print, skimming over the text. His lips moved as he silently read.

He stopped, licked his lips nervously, glanced at Alec's smiling face, then returned his gaze to the paper. "But this doesn't mention the terms of Ms. Devereaux's incarceration," he said.

"Like I said," Alec replied vaguely. "We got all we need."

"So I'm free?" Sophie asked. "That's it?" Nate continued to read. Then he saw it. A laugh—three parts bitter, one part hysterical—escaped him.

"Oh, no," he said between gasps. "No, that's not it. They've sold you out to Interpol, Sophie."

"Technically, she's not even an American citizen," Alec shrugged. "It's all politics, not really my thing. Sorry, folks, don't shoot the messenger."

Sophie's hand closed around Nate's arm in a death grip. "Jimmy, get me out of this. Interpol's got a secret prison; I don't want to go to a secret prison!" Sophie, bless her thieving heart, somehow managed to stick to their story, even under threat of being shipped off to who-knows where for who-knows how long.

"You're not going to secret prison," Nate reassured her. He stared down Hardison-who-wasn't. "Right? Har—mm, Alec?"

The agent scrunched up his nose and pursed his lips in a caricature of genuine thought. "Well… It's not really my call, but yeah, probably." He shrugged and checked his watch.

Nate's lips thinned. Not only was this guy threatening Sophie, but on top of that he was impatient about it? It was hard to believe Hardison could turn out like this.

"Sorry," he said dryly, "I hope we're not wasting your _precious _time. I'm sure you have very important paper pushing to finish."

Alec looked up quickly. "As a matter of fact, I was just wondering when the helicopter was going to get here. They said a half-past, but—" he was interrupted by the sound of a song Nate vaguely remembered being popular in the nineties. He reached into his pocket and muted his phone. "Oh, there it is." Alec pinched the confession between his thumb and forefinger and slid it out of Nate's grasp.

"Helicopter?" Sophie asked incredulously. Alec shrugged again, fumbling with his laptop case as he got out of his chair.

"Perks, am I right?" He snapped his fingers. "Which reminds me…" the agent knocked on the door, tapping his foot impatiently. When the guard finally opened it, Alec whispered something to him. Nate listened closely, but only caught the dismissive ending, "so hop to it, Skippy."

Alec self-consciously cleared his throat and sat down, as if trying to pretend the exchange never happened. Nate looked at him expectantly. The ex-hacker (or, more accurately, the newly government-funded hacker), instead of explaining his shifty behavior, whistled tunelessly and drummed his fingers on the table.

His head shot up when he heard the door burst open but he slumped and rolled his eyes when he saw it was just a disheveled Sterling stumbling in, looking like he'd gotten dressed blindfolded (or drunk, as was more likely).

"God, not again," Nate groaned. It seemed to be Sterling's unique gift to show up exactly where he wasn't wanted at exactly the wrong time. Sterling tilted his head to the side.

"Nate, what in God's name are you wearing?"

Alec looked between Nate, whose face stayed buried in his palm; Sophie, who refused to look anywhere but the ceiling; and Sterling, who was having trouble staying vertical. "Do you two know each other, or…" he drifted off, waiting for someone to jump in and set things straight.

Little did he know, his present company wasn't big on "communicating" or "divulging information necessary to draw conclusions in the same universe as the truth."

"Sterling," Nate lifted his head just enough to give the other man a poisonous look, "shouldn't you be passed out drunk somewhere?"

"No thanks to you," Sterling snorted. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get me out of the picture."

"I'm not even gonna touch that," Alec muttered, tapping his foot impatiently.

Sophie shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Interpol's putting me in their secret prison, and my last moments of freedom are spent in the company of the biggest morons on Earth."

Sterling considered it, then leaned in conspiratorially (if a tad tipsily). "Well, I mean technically you're in jail already so your last moments of freedom were spent with a lying, backstabbing, no-good, dirty-rotten—"

"Thank you, Jim, we get the point," Nate said through clenched teeth.

"—Bastard!" finished the inebriated insurance investigator. "Inna terr'ble suit."

Alec raised his eyebrows and blinked like he'd reached his threshold for crazy. "Aaaand that's my cue." Several guards walked in. "Oh good, the brute squad made it just on time. Finally." They rounded the table and had Sophie stand. She glared at Nate.

"Jimmy…" she warned as they ushered her toward the door. There was a promise in that one word, one that involved a personal vendetta and possibly arson if this wasn't resolved.

"Hey, ah, Alec," Nate lurched onto his feet. "Hold up a second, you can't just take her. I mean, this confession wouldn't hold up in court, she didn't have a lawyer present and it can't be legal."

Alec shrugged helplessly. "I'd help if I could, but it's not my call, man. Like I said, I'm just the middle man here."

"That's not good enough," Nate hissed. Alec's expression turned cold.

"Maybe you should have thought about that, _Mr. Ford_, before you had her arrested."

Nate paled. He could only watch powerlessly as Sophie was taken out of the room. Alec mock saluted and winked on his way out.

"Pleasure meeting y'all," he said. "Keep doing you." And then he was gone.

Nate and Sterling looked at the open door, then back at each other.

"We need to stop them," Nate asserted at the same time as the other man groaned, "I may throw up on you." Nate grabbed Sterling by the elbow and dragged him after the CIA agent and the grifter.

As it happened, strange lawyers in pastel suits and drunken insurance detectives did _not_ have clearance for roof access and they were forcibly removed from the facility.

Nate squinted into the sun, trying to get a glimpse of the helicopter Alec Hardison had mentioned. So far, nothing. He hoped he hadn't missed them. Sterling swayed next to him.

"I'm…" he paused, brow creased in thought, "very not sober."

"Yeah, ah, I got that."

"I just had a couple drinks," Sterling continued.

Nate nodded distractedly and kept his eyes on the roof. "I was there."

"Not all night," Sterling slurred. "Or this morning. They took the David, see. My David. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find where she hid it? Any?"

Before Nate could reply, a choppy humming sound caught his attention. Slowly, a black helicopter rose from the roof and hovered far above their heads. He clenched his fists and stared, because that was all he could do. The chopper's pilot seemed grow bored with taunting him and started heading south.

The next moments happened as if filmed in slow-motion.

One second he was watching the helicopter fly off into the blue sky, and the next he was watching the blades falter like a skipping heart. He held his breath as it veered sharply to the left; his nails dug into his palms. He didn't know when he started running but somehow his feet were moving him closer and closer to the helicopter.

Or was the helicopter getting closer to him?

It was a nightmare—no, this whole world was a nightmare—and the helicopter was falling. With Sophie inside. Nate felt himself trembling. First Eliot, then Maggie, now Sophie. Even in a perfect world, where Sam was alive and healthy and happy, he'd still managed to mess it all up.

He heard Sterling shout at him to stop, to turn back, but his eyes were fixed on the heavy machine as it struggled to keep airborne. Sterling jerked him back just before the helicopter hit the parking lot, smashed and folded like an aluminum can under foot against the asphalt in a heap of twisted metal.

Car alarms sounded and a delayed explosion burst the wreck into flames. And Nate stared. _It could be real_, a wicked voice taunted. _What if he got it wrong?  
_


End file.
